


Back Into Orbit

by almagwillschu



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Character Study, Connor is trying his best okay, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attack, Post Game, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, android adjusting to newfound freedom and feelings he would like a refund, anxiety attack, basically he's having a hard time, self hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22260403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almagwillschu/pseuds/almagwillschu
Summary: In the days following the Uprising, Connor is left with no objectives, no underlying tasks, and he doesn't know what to do. All he's been left with is the underlying fear that CyberLife will try to take over again. Hank invites him to stay at his house, but even then Connor is left wondering what exactly it is he should be doing.He feels (and when exactly did he start feeling?) like he's floating around the world, there only to watch as things happen, with no hope of reaching the ground. But he's trying. And the more he tries the more it becomes strikingly clear that something is wrong.//" A hug, Connor registered. Hank was hugging him. Connor also then registered that he had never been hugged before. He came to the conclusion that he quite liked the sensation. He sensors didn’t feel touch in the same way as a human would, but he did appreciate the warmth Hank emitted — the appropriate temperature of a fifty-three year old male in cold weather — and the firm pressure of the embrace. It was not an unbearable pressure — no pressure Hank could exert could be unbearable for him, realistically — but enough to assure Connor. Of what, he wasn’t quite sure."//Please be sure to read the tags!!
Relationships: Connor & Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 15
Kudos: 220





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic the summer of 2018, when I was in a rather bad mental place. I intended this fic to be a way for me to work through my suicidal thoughts among other things, but I got caught up in life and never finished it. I rediscovered my draft of the first and second chapters late 2019, and wanted to give the characters a happy ending that I also would like to find. All of this is the result of those, and the thoughts of a seventeen year old kid just trying to make it through life, just like Connor is in this fic. I hope you enjoy.

Connor had options. He had choices. Even when he was no more than CyberLife’s puppet, he was aware of these options and choices. He could have left Hank dangling from that building with a safe eighty-nine percent chance that he would be fine, or he could have chased the deviant — _it would have been inefficient to have to go through formalities with a new partner or have the lieutenant dislike him, would it not? So it had been logical to rescue the lieutenant. There would be more deviants, and Connor could prove himself then._ He could have shot the two Traci androids, or he could have spared them — _there was no benefit from killing them; on the contrary if he spared them he may find them again and interrogate them then_. Amanda, however, saw the situation differently. She always did. 

  
Whatever would ensure his mission’s success, that’s what was expected of him. What he had to do. That was what he believed, until given the choice to shoot Chloe or spare her by Kamski.   
And rather than get more information that could save his investigation, Connor had chosen to spare the Chloe android. 

It was the first time that Connor realized he didn’t always make choices based off of his mission. He had made decisions that had the possibility of an undesirable outcome for his mission, but the choice he faced with Chloe stood out for Connor. For the first time, he was aware that he was jeopardizing his mission. It was a… difficult realization for him. He had assumed - no, he had feared - that Hank would chastise and berate him for his final decision. He knew Amanda would. Why would Hank be any different? 

  
Except Hank hadn’t. In fact, the Lieutenant had seemed

happy that he had chose not to shoot Chloe. It — _didn’t make any sense_ — had caused Connor great confusion at the time. Yet, he didn’t say anything as he followed the Lieutenant back to his car.   
It was quiet in the car. Strange, Connor had thought, considering his partner’s taste in music. The music was more background noise than its usual overwhelming loud. Though Connor’s LED was not visible to Hank as they currently sat, Connor knew the man could still see the reflection of the light in the passenger window. It was yellow, and blinking at what probably seemed like random. It hadn’t been blue since Kamski had put the gun in the android’s hand. 

  
Hank was going to ask about it. Connor knew he would. It was in his very nature, his ever so human behaviors. Even if Connor viewed himself as nothing more than a replaceable machine, Hank, for reasons that Connor could not comprehend, saw him as something more. Something that the Lieutenant thought he had to make sure was okay. Before Hank could say anything out of his already open mouth, Connor turned up the music in the car. Hank blinked in surprise, eyes darting over to his companion beside him. But Connor, who had never before made any move to touch anything in the policeman’s car, lest he upset his partner, had already turned his head towards the window, watching the blinding snow. 

The next time Connor would face such a daunting choice would be when he was in an abandoned ship, with someone asking him if he’d ever thought he was something more than just a machine, if he had doubted their creators.   
And if Connor was being honest with himself, he hadn’t liked having to question himself then either. 

* * *

It was several hours later that Connor found himself walking the desolate streets of Detroit. It was early morning, the sun just beginning to show itself over the horizon, showering the city in a pale blue hue. Snowflakes made their way to the ground, drifting along to their destination just as the RK800 was. 

  
Hank had told Connor to meet him outside of the Chicken Feed when everything — _Connor had to assume the lieutenant was referring to the protests, and not the fight for android rights, because that was a battle that would not be over for a considerable amount of time_ — was over. Markus insisted that he stay for a while longer, among his people. Perhaps even go to live with them at a new Jericho. Connor had to admit, he longed to accept the offer — _could he, an android, really long to do something? It wasn’t in his programming, to want things, this was all so confusing_ — but in the end declined. Not only because Hank was waiting for him, and not only because he could tell that the other androids were uncomfortable with his presence. 

  
Connor didn’t trust himself to be around too many others at the moment. Least of all Markus. Connor figured most people- _not that he was really a person, just a machine_ \- wouldn’t be comfortable around people that you had nearly shot twice in one night. Certainly not when it was a person you liked and admired. 

  
The only reason he was going to ChickenFeed was one: Connor had promised Hank that he would meet him there, and he didn’t plan to so easily break promises now that he had free will; and two, because if anything, if CyberLife were to… take control again, he is less likely to hurt Hank Anderson, a human, than any android. At least, that’s what Connor — _assumes_ — hopes is the case.

Connor feels as though he’s been walking for ages — _even though logically he knows it’s only been seventeen minutes and thirty-one seconds_ — when the Chicken Feed comes into view. He sees a single figure standing in front of the stand, right in front of the barren food truck. The figure’s arms are crossed, and Connor assumes it’s because he’s is getting cold — _which is a logical conclusion, because it is currently twenty-nine degree Fahrenheit (or negative one-point-six-six degree Celsius) which is over all too cold for the average human._

  
For some reason, Connor was not fully expecting the lieutenant to actually be here. He had half expected to get there and find the place abandoned, with Hank having forgotten about their promise. But no, there he is, Lieutenant Hank Anderson in all of his greasy haired, irascible glory. Connor hadn’t noticed that his legs had started carrying himself faster towards his partner until he was right there, no more than ten feet away. 

  
It was then that Connor wondered if he was doing the right thing — _even though nothing could be considered the right thing anymore, he had turned on his creators, Amanda had trusted him and he_ betrayed _that_. He knew it wasn’t a bother to the lieutenant, who had, after all, come up with the idea of meeting after things had died down. But somehow it felt — _when was it that he had started feeling?_ — as though he were in the wrong. At the same time, the android thought that, if he hadn’t come here, he wouldn’t have known what to do with himself. He couldn’t have stayed with the other androids, and there wasn’t a chance he could go back to CyberLife. 

  
In a way, his friendship with Hank Anderson was all he had left. And Connor realized that that terrified him, not having any objective or meaning. Why was he even still standing, he didn’t belong here or anywhere.   
  
But then Hank turned around. He smiled, and looked happy to see the RK800. Somehow for Connor, that made everything a little better. Connor may not have had much, no CyberLife and no androids that actually one hundred percent trusted him. Yet it seemed as that at least Hank was on his side, so to speak. Connor returned Hank’s smile. The android realized he liked how smiling felt, the somehow warm feeling that emitted from his core. It occurred to him that that must be what happiness felt — _but he was an android he wasn’t supposed to feel he couldn’t feel this was_ wrong — like.

He was learning all sorts of new things about himself today. Before Connor could say anything, to thank his friend or at the very least say some sort of greeting, Hank approached him. The man was right in front of him, and Connor only had a moment to look up at him before Hank reached out to him.   


Connor would later be ashamed to admit that his first instinct was to stiffen at the touch. Hank would reply that his reaction made sense, considering most of the RK800’s physical interactions were violent up until that point. But currently, with Hank’s hand wrapped around the back of Connor’s neck to bring him closer, Connor did not know how to react. How he was supposed to react. He especially didn’t know how to react when Hank brought his head down so that it was resting on the other man’s shoulder. Hank’s arms moved so that they were wrapped around him. A hug, Connor registered. Hank was hugging him. Connor also then registered that he had never been hugged before. He came to the conclusion that he quite liked the sensation. He sensors didn’t feel touch in the same way as a human would, but he did appreciate the warmth Hank emitted — _the appropriate temperature of a fifty-three year old male in cold weather_ — and the firm pressure of the embrace. It was not an unbearable pressure — _no pressure Hank could exert could be unbearable for him, realistically_ — but enough to assure Connor. Of what, he wasn’t quite sure.   


With great hesitation, Connor raised his own arms. He hadn’t realized he was shaking — _it couldn’t be because he was cold, his model was meant to withstand this kind of cold, but why else would he be shaking?_ — until then. With great hesitation, he wrapped them around Hank, trying his best to mimic the hug. 

The embrace was over all too soon, in Connor’s opinion. Not that he was about to voice that thought. Hank didn’t quite let go of him, creating space between the two while still keeping his hands on the android’s shoulders. Hank observed him for a moment, looked him up and down. Connor wasn’t sure what else to do with Hank looking at him like that, so he scanned the older man.

**_ Initiating Facial Scan… _ **   
**_Scan Complete_ **   
**_Results:_ **   
**_Police Lieutenant Hank Anderson_ **   
**_Age: 53 (DOB: 09/06/1985)_ **

_**Initiating Condition Scan…**_  
 _ **Scan Complete**_  
 _ **Results:**_  
 _ **Currently running on low sleep.**_  
 _ **Recent consumption of alcohol.**_

“Are you staying with the other androids?” Hank asked, voice filled with something Connor couldn’t place. “Do you need a ride there?”

  
Connor tried to form words, tried to find a good way to explain the situation to Hank. It… felt embarrassing to admit to Hank that he really didn’t have anywhere to go. 

  
“I…” Connor began. He was still trying to choose the best prompt to get his points across. Hank did not appear to mind, allowing Connor to take his time. “I am not staying with the other androids, no. I do not… They don’t. They don’t entirely trust me, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  
Hank’s lipped tightened into a firm line. Connor was almost afraid that Hank was cross with him, before discarding this as another illogical thought. Hank let go of Connor’s shoulders, and turned around to face the same direction as Connor. The lieutenant slung his right arm around Connor’s shoulder’s once more. 

  
“Alright,” Hank said, “How about you stay with me then?”

  
“Lieutenant, I couldn’t-“

  
“Bullshit, you can’t. It’s my house and I’m offering it to you. You need a place to recharge and all of that crap, right? My place is as good as any,” Hank reasoned. “Plus Sumo already likes you, which means you’re more than welcome at my house.” 

  
Connor was silent, looking down at his shoes. He… almost did not want to accept the offer. He was still dangerous, could still turn on anyone at any time. Except… he’d gotten rid of Amanda, hadn’t he? Connor had used Kamski’s back door to get out, so he was truly free now… right? It wasn’t like she could still come back and take control of him… probably. Another thought occurred to Connor. If Connor showed any signs of returning to his programming, signs of hurting anyone, he could ask Hank to, in tame terms, “put him down.” The idea reassured him. He would have to discuss it further with Hank. 

  
Connor turned his head towards the lieutenant’s. “Okay,” he said, “It would be… I would like to stay with you, if you’ll have me.” 

  
Hank grinned at him, and walked with Connor towards his car with his arm still around the android’s shoulders. “I sure as shit will, kid.”

* * *

It had only been two days. Two days — _though technically it hadn’t even been two days, more accurately it had been forty-six hours, thirty-two minutes, and seven seconds; not that this solves any predicaments_ — since the Android Uprising, as the media was calling it, and Connor didn’t know what to do with himself. He had never not had a mission to complete, no purpose. Though the man was unlikely to ever admit it, Hank didn’t seem sure what to do with himself, either. The police lieutenant wasn’t allowed back at the precinct, what with having almost broken an FBI agent’s nose. Connor felt a little guilty, considering Hank had done so to buy Connor time in the evidence room. 

  
According to Hank, however, Captain Fowler was attempting to pull some strings and get the lieutenant back under the guise of being short on hand. Which Connor could suppose would be true — it was a logical assumption to assume that a good handful or two of the officers had left the city during the evacuations, and made further sense if he also assumed that the android officers had either been let go or left themselves. This wasn’t the case with Connor. Because it had only been two days since the Uprising, androids still could not have jobs, much less be paid for them. Hank promised that if the captain wasn’t already trying to get Connor back, with promised pay under the table, Hank would make him. Connor didn’t like the sounds of Hank trying anything that would add another few pages to his disciplinary folder, but appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. Even still, Connor was uncertain with what he should be doing. He had never before considered what he would do if he ever had proper free time, and now he was met with hours, if not days, of it.   
  
He had cleaned most of the house already, though he didn’t touch Hank’s room — _it was the lieutenant’s personal space, and he had no right to intrude upon it_ — and did not want to upset Hank by turning his home into a spotless, clean palace without the man’s explicit permission. Though Connor hadn’t sensed any anger or frustration on Hank’s face when the man had told him the android didn’t have to go around cleaning and cooking, Connor did not want to upset the man that was kind enough to give him shelter. 

This was how Connor found himself sitting in silence on Hank Anderson’s sofa, watching reruns of old TV shows, the television muted and subtitles on so as to not wake the police lieutenant. Though the shows were old, and some may have even considered them “bad,” Connor found himself entranced. TV shows were not things CyberLife deemed necessary for his mission, so the android had never seen or heard of any of these sitcoms. He would have to ask Hank what he thought of this “ _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ ;” it seemed rather inaccurate, but then again, Connor had only worked at a police station for a week. 

  
Connor had been pondering if the DPD had their own “Halloween Heists” when Hank’s phone began to ring. Not a home phone — _obviously, those had gone out of fashion entirely by the 2020’s_ — but Hank had been tired last night, and had forgotten to take his cell phone with him to bed. Connor stared at it for a moment, uncertain with what to do. He was not sure how long the phone would ring, if he could wake the lieutenant up in time to answer the call. It could be important, after all. Connor got up from his spot on the couch, and walked over to the side table where the cell phone laid. 

_**Incoming Call: Captain Butthead** _

It did not take a state of the art android prototype to figure out that Captain Fowler of the Detroit Police Department must be calling. Connor glanced up in the direction of Hank’s room, loud snores still audible from the living room. There was no way Hank would wake up to answer, and if the Captain were calling, it might actually be important. Deciding that Hank likely would not mind if he answered for him and relayed the message, Connor picked up the phone. It was odd to have to physically hold a phone, instead of calling wirelessly, but Connor hit “Answer,” and brought the phone to his ear anyways. 

“Hello, Captain,” Connor answered, but before he could ask for the purpose of the call, the captain was yelling. 

  
“Hank!” Fowler hollered. He didn’t sound particularly angry — though, Connor did not have the facial cues to be certain on this — and Connor wondered if the captain was just in a constant state of yelling. “Get your lazy ass up and- Hey. Wait.” It seemed that the captain had finally processed the greeting, and knew Hank was not on the phone. “You’re that CyberLife android… Kyle or something?”

Though still being associated with CyberLife stung, Connor replied, “My name is Connor, sir. The lieutenant is currently asleep, but I can give him your message.”

  
“Right…” Fowler answered. Perhaps he was uncomfortable because he had never spoken one on one with the android before. Or maybe he was trying to figure out why Connor was answering Hank’s phone. “Listen, Conrad-“

“Connor.”

  
“Okay, Connor,” the man on the other end sighed. “Just. Could you get Hank up for me? Tell him I need him at the station. The FBI is still on our asses, but I managed to get them to agree to let me get Hank back in here. We’re short on hand, as you can imagine.”

  
Connor could. He could also register how tired the captain sounded. None of this could be easy on the other man, or the entire department, really. 

  
“Of course, Captain,” Connor replied. “If you would like, I could come-“

  
“Caleb, I would, but…” Fowler seemed to be trying to find his words. Connor did not interrupt to correct him on calling him Caleb. “Some of the officers… they aren’t real pleased with any androids right now.” Connor thought of Detective Gavin Reed. He understood. He did not want to upset any of the officers, or make Captain Fowler have an even harder time than he already was… Not to mention the fact that he was a danger himself; Connor wasn’t entirely sure he trusted himself around others, either, so he shouldn’t have even asked-

  
“I just don’t think it’d be safe for you to come in as it is. Some of these guys are real frustrated right now, and I don’t want them taking it out on you. When things die down a bit, I’ll try to get you back, alright?”

Oh. The captain was… concerned? That the officers may try to harm him? But why-

  
“I understand, sir,” Connor answered, not wanting to keep the captain waiting while the android tried to understand the other man’s motives. “I look forward to being able to come back. I will wake the lieutenant and send him to the precinct.”

  
“Alright, thanks.” Connor was about the hang up when the captain spoke up once again. “And Connor? Thanks for looking out for Hank. God knows he needs it.” 

  
With that, Captain Jeffery Fowler hung up, and Connor was left standing in the living room, still holding the cell phone to his ear. 

Connor stood in front of Hank’s door. It would be rude to just enter the room, yet he also knew that — _rather, there was a ninety-seven-point-four percent chance_ — it was unlikely that Hank wouldn’t wake up with Connor simply knocking on the door. He decided he would knock on the door regardless; he wouldn’t have to lie to Hank and say he tried knocking if he actually did so. When Hank, predictably, did not answer, Connor entered the room. 

  
The first thing he noticed was Sumo sitting up and staring at him, wagging his tail. The Saint Bernard had slept with Connor — _while Connor was in standby mode, which wasn’t really sleep. Machines did not require actual sleep, but standby was an excellent way to make sure his systems were up to date and could function at full capacity_ — on his first night at the house, but had decided last night to sleep at the foot of Hank’s bed. Hank had laughed at Connor’s pout when the dog followed the lieutenant to bed that night. 

  
The next thing Connor noticed was Hank’s deafening snores. Connor only registered it second because one, the man had been snoring ever since he fell asleep, and it had become a background noise at this point, and two, dog. Dog was sufficient enough of an explanation in Connor’s mind. Connor had been surprised when he had first heard Hank snore, and had half thought that there was an intruder his first night at the house. The man hadn’t snored when he had drunk himself into an alcoholic mini-coma. Then again, that made sense; if he was drunk enough to knock himself out, he was drunk enough to not snore. 

  
Connor approached the bed. This excited Sumo, who Connor figured was expecting to be pet. And when Sumo gets excited, Connor learned, Sumo got jumpy. Sumo bolted himself upright, and began running in circles around the bed, very excited that someone was awake, and thus might give him belly rubs or food or a walk. 

  
Now, Hank Anderson owns a full queen-sized bed, a perfect size for a single man. However, Hank Anderson also owns a very full size saint Bernard. When the saint Bernard in question becomes excited, these two things do not mix well. 

  
Sumo, in his ever excited circles, ended up running onto Hank’s legs. And his stomach. Several times. 

Connor is not a sound expert, but he is certain that Hank’s screams were on par with his snoring. At least he was awake now. 

  
“Sumo!” Hank yelled, still in the midst of being trampled by the dog, “off! That’s right, get off you big dork.” Sumo slunk off the bed, sitting at Connor’s feet. The android leaned down and pet the saint Bernard behind his ears. Now freed from his doggie-tormentor, Hank looked at Connor with bleary eyes. Before Hank can ask why the hell he’s awake before ten AM, Connor explains.   


“Sorry, lieutenant. You left your phone in the living room, and it began to ring, so I answered, because you were sleeping, and-“

  
“Connor, love that you want to explain yourself and shit, but I haven’t had coffee,” Hank says, still groggy, “Can I have the short, to the point version?”

“Captain Fowler just called. You’re wanted at the station. As soon as possible.” 

The older man grumbled some obscenities as he got up quicker than Connor had ever seen him. Well, excluding the time at CyberLife Tower. And perhaps that time when they were chasing the deviant - Rupert, rather, and Hank managed to catch up to them at some point. But other than those two times. 

  
“I’ll go make you some coffee, then,” Connor said, still rather lost in his thoughts. He was already half way to the kitchen when Hank rushed across the hall, somehow already dressed, to the bathroom. 

  
“Make sure you’re ready to go in five!” Hank yelled after him. Connor stopped and glanced at the now closed bathroom door. He clenched his jaw — which didn’t make sense, there was no reason to do so, so why — and continued on his way to the kitchen. He could explain that he couldn’t go when he gave Hank his coffee. 

In a very short amount of time, not long enough for Hank to properly brush his teeth, Connor noted, Hank was in the kitchen. The lieutenant was still in a state of rush when he entered, but he stopped when he saw Connor. Connor, who wasn’t wearing his shoes — it would be rude to wear dirty shoes in someone’s home — and, with the utmost calm, was trying to hand Hank a banana and a travel mug of coffee. 

  
“Well, c’mon, get your shoes!” Hank said, accepting the fruit and drink. “We gotta go!” 

  
“I will not be accompanying you, lieutenant,” Connor said. “The captain… recommends that I do not enter the station until things, as he said, “die down.”” 

  
Connor, while trying to cover it, was surprised at how his voice sounded. He sounded… _disappointed_. Yes, that had to be it. Connor was disappointed that he could not go with Hank to the station. Part of him thought this made sense, because he… liked the station, and solving mysteries and crimes. Yet, another part of him was unsettled that he was feeling something, and even more unsettled when he realized that Hank likely also heard the change in his tone. 

  
This was proven to be true when Connor registered first the anger in Hank’s facial features, followed a more… worried look. It was quickly overtaken with anger again, however. 

  
“What the fuck does he mean, “die down?!”” Hank demanded. “I need my partner, damn it.”

  
While Connor was honored that Hank held him in such high regard as his partner, he also knew that for Hank’s career as a police lieutenant to continue, he would need to be at the police station. Right now. 

  
Connor was sure to keep his voice devoid of any… _emotion_ … in his response. “Some of the officers are currently frustrated with the, to put it lightly, “android situation” the city is facing. Captain Fowler expressed concern that some of these officers may try to do me harm. While I am certainly more than capable of defending myself, as you know, I agree with the captain, as I would hate to cause any unnecessary problems.” Hank looked as though he was trying to find something to argue in what Connor had said, but Connor continued. “The captain has assured me that he will let me know when he thinks it is safe enough for me to return.”

  
Now Hank was at a true loss for words, and Connor watched as Hank tried to come to terms with this. He could imagine that while on one hand, Hank knew that Captain Fowler was right, but on the other hand, Connor imagined that Hank didn’t particularly want to go back to the precinct without his partner. 

In turn, Hank watched him. It made Connor… uneasy, to be held under his gaze. It reminded him of Amanda, in a way. How she watched him constantly. Always. Was she still watching? Did CyberLife still observe what their prized prototype was doing? The thought made Connor feel… feel something. And he hated that it did. The only thing that he could possibly hate more was the fact that he didn’t know what exactly he was feeling. Just that it made want to curl up into a ball and hope everything else would go away.

  
Getting to have his own choices was nice at times, but this whole feeling thing of deviating was, in the only way Connor could put it, bullshit. Hank was clearly rubbing off on the android. 

  
“…Alright,” Hank said, snapping the android out of his thoughts, “But I’m not happy about this.” Connor accompanied Hank to the door to see the lieutenant off. Neither of the two knew what exactly Hank would be doing at the station, whether he’d be reduced to desk duty, or if the police were desperate enough to throw him back into the fray of things. Either way, it was likely that Hank would not be home until late in the day. 

  
Hank put on his coat, and looked to Connor again. He was giving Connor that look again. The one that made Connor feel like he wasn’t living up to expectations, that he was doing something wrong. The look that made him feel watched and small. “Are you sure you’ll be alright by yourself?” the lieutenant asked. 

  
Connor scoffed. He hadn’t been aware he could scoff. An entirely human reaction, but he wasn’t human. “Lieutenant, I am a state of the art prototype that could very well cost more than this house,” Connor jabbed, “I think I can handle myself for the day.” 

  
Yet Hank still gave him that look. Connor knew the man hated it when he did it, but he analyzed the Lieutenant’s face. It gave him a better understanding of the situation, and what Hank might be thinking. Most importantly, it might give him a clue to what that look meant, and why it made him feel like this.

_** Initiating Facial Scan…** _   
_** Scan Complete** _   
_** Results:** _   
_**Police Lieutenant Hank Anderson** _   
_**Age: 53 (DOB: 09/06/1985)** _

_** Scanning Face For: Emotion** _   
_** Scan - Complete** _   
_** Results:** _   
_**40% - Concern** _   
_**45% - Worry** _   
_**10% - Pity** _   
_**5% - Frustrated** _

_** Conclusions From Scan:** _   
_**Hank Anderson is worried about me.** _

The results didn’t particularly surprise him. He knew that, for whatever reason, Hank cared about him, so it made sense that he would worry about leaving him on his own. But none of this explained why Connor felt the way he did. Did he not want Hank to worry about him? If so, why? 

  
“If you’re sure, I guess,” Hank grumbled, zipping up his coat. The weather was currently twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit, negative three-point-nine degrees Celsius. Hank turned to leave before Connor could recommend that he also wear a hat, or at the very least a pair of gloves. Hank had his hand wrapped around the doorknob when he added, “If you like, I don’t know, need something to do today, you can walk Sumo, or-or clean more, if you really fuckin’ want to. Just…Just stay out of trouble, y’hear?”

  
With that, the lieutenant left. And Connor now had possible tasks to do. 

_**Tasks (Optional(?))** _

  * _**Feed Sumo**_
    * _**Morning**_
    * _**Evening**_
  * _**Walk Sumo**_
    * _**Possible To Repeat Task, If Needed**_
  * _**Continue Cleaning House**_
    * _**Sort Kitchen Drawers**_
    * _**Clean Fridge**_
    * _**Vacuum Living Room (Again)**_



  
Connor went over the mental list of things he could do today. This would definitely keep him occupied for a good portion of the day, at least. He looked down towards Sumo, who appeared to be waiting to see what Connor would do. Hank did not get the chance to refill Sumo’s food and water bowls before he left, so perhaps it would be best if Connor started with that. Connor moved towards the kitchen, and Sumo followed behind.

  
One of the things Connor had done in the past few days, to fill time, was research the care of saint Bernard dogs. He found that, at seven years old, Sumo could be considered an “old dog” by some. He discovered that unless Sumo had dietary problems (he did not appear to), Sumo could be fed the same as any adult saint Bernard. Connor was pleased to find that Hank had apparently done his own research on caring for his dog, and was already feeding Sumo twice a day as suggested, and Hank was also known to spoil the dog with treats. It wasn’t that this knowledge surprised Connor, in fact he expected Hank to know how to care for his own dog, and had simply wanted to confirm that Sumo was being cared for correctly. However, the mental image Connor had of Hank Anderson, office grump, sitting at his kitchen table and researching saint Bernard care (complete with a pad of paper with messy notes, and a lot of grumbling), was amusing, to say the least. 

Sumo began running around in big, sloppy circles as Connor neared the top of the fridge, where the massive dog’s food was kept. Hank had mentioned that he used to keep the food in one of the cabinets, but Sumo had managed to open the cabinet and… it hadn’t ended well. Connor grabbed the container with the dog food. The actual bag of dog food was left in the garage, and a smaller portion was kept in the plastic container Connor now held. Connor supposed the actual bag would be too heavy to put up on the top of the fridge twice every day. 

  
Connor made his way towards the food bowl. Really, he should have expected this. He was an intelligent android, and should have known better. With Sumo being excited and energetic about being fed, and more so as Connor approached his food dish. If he had pre-constructed, or done any sort of calculation at all, he would have known there was a ninety-one percent chance that Sumo would knock him over to get to his food. One moment Connor was trying to bend over and get the food into the bowl, and the next a one-hundred-seventy pound — _seventy-seven kilograms_ — furry blob was barreling into him. 

  
Connor stared at the ceiling as Sumo ate the food he had dropped in his fall. Connor blinked a few times in order to get his bearings. He sighed — _he didn’t need to, so why did he? He wasn’t overheating, so there wasn’t any need to exhale hot air_ — and sat up. He was met with Sumo trudging over to him and plopping himself onto Connor’s lap. Sumo bumped his head against Connor’s chest. Ah. A dog’s way of apology. Connor patted the dog’s head, which then turned into scratching behind his ears. 

“I really do need to get up, you know,” Connor said, even as he continued to pet the dog, “I have to clean up your mess.” 

  
Connor somehow managed to get the giant dog off of him , and got up. Brushing any dog hairs off of himself, he looked around for the dog food container. Empty, he found. Sumo must have eaten all of the food. Connor supposed he should refill it now rather than later. Grabbing the container, Connor made his way through the small house towards the garage, Sumo following faithfully behind him. Getting more dog food really didn’t take that long, and in a very short amount of time Connor was back in the kitchen, now with a filled to the top plastic container of dog food. Sumo seemed to think that this meant he was getting fed again. What a greedy dog. Connor patted the saint Bernard’s head again. 

Crossing off one of his (optional?) tasks from his mental list, Connor made his way over to return the container to the top of the fridge. The refrigerator was just barely taller than he was, but he still had to reach up and slide the dog food onto the fridge. What he wasn’t expecting was for the container to hit something up there. Connor’s face scrunched in confusion. There shouldn’t be anything up there, except maybe a thick layer of dust. Moving the dog food container to a nearby counter, Connor brushed his hand around the top of the fridge again. He had to stand a little more on the top of his toes to reach farther back. 

  
There, his hand connected with something. Something metal. Connor grabbed it and brought it back down from the refrigerator.

  
In his hands, Connor held a point-three-five-seven revolver. Connor had seen it before, the night he and Hank had went to the Eden Club on the deviancy case. This was the gun Hank usually played Russian Roulette with. Thinking back on it, Connor hadn’t seen it since moving in. Hank must have shoved it up there in a hurry, so Connor wouldn’t see it. In the back of his mind, Connor thought it was a little silly that Hank felt the need to hide the gun; it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen what Hank was doing with it before. 

Another part of him, though, caused him to stare at the gun. This could kill him. This gun could kill him. And he wouldn’t come back, because CyberLife was currently out of business, and was likely discontinuing the RK800 line even if they weren’t. The idea was terrifying. The idea was alarming. The idea was-

  
Calming. 

  
Yes, it was calming, Connor thought. Calming to know that he could be gone within an instant. If he were gone, dead and never to return, he wouldn’t have to worry about hurting anyone anymore. Connor wouldn’t have to worry about CyberLife taking control of him again, about not having any purpose, about Hank-

  
Oh god. Hank. What would Hank do, if Connor died? Would the man mourn him? Hank certainly seemed to care enough to mourn. Could Hank handle that? Connor didn’t think they had a father-son relationship, but he also knew that they both cared greatly about each other, and when people cared about each other, they mourned. It occurred to Connor that he had never discussed with Hank the possibility of CyberLife taking him over, never asked if Hank would put him down. Looking back, it was stupid to ever even consider that Hank would do so. Hank… Hank cared about Connor — _why would anyone care about a defective android with no purpose_ — even if Connor couldn’t understand why. Connor couldn’t count on Hank being the one to put him down if needed. 

  
If — _when_ — the time came, Connor would have to do it himself.   
  
Sumo nudged Connor’s leg and whined. For the first time since picking it up, Connor looked away from the gun, and turned his gaze towards the Saint Bernard. The dog looked at him with big, sad eyes. He’d probably seen Hank with this gun as he drank himself into a stupor. He wouldn’t do that. Well, the playing with the gun part; he obviously couldn’t do the alcohol part. Connor put the gun back on top of the fridge where he’d found it, and then put the dog food in front of it. He wouldn’t shoot himself. That was ridiculous. Hank would… would be beside himself with grief. Right? Because they were partners, Hank had said so before. Who would tell Hank he needed to eat healthier, and who would be Hank’s partner, who would walk Sumo-

  
No, Connor wouldn’t shoot himself. The android made his way towards the front door, and grabbed Sumo’s leash. The dog bound towards him, giving a cheerful “boof!” Connor didn’t want to be in the house right now. A walk would do both him and Sumo some good. If he’s not in the house, it’ll be harder to consider the gun, and he won’t be as likely to think about firing it and anyone — including himself. Because Connor wouldn’t shoot himself. 

  
“I won’t,” he said under his breath.

But it was nice knowing the option was there. 


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank returns home after a long day at the precinct, and the lieutenant and Connor go to give Sumo a walk. The snow in the air reminds Connor of something he thought he'd put behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for this chapter: panic/anxiety attack in slight detail, and vague descriptions of disassociation. Enjoy! Sorry that this chapter was shorter, and maybe a little uneventful, but next chapter is a doozy!

Hank got home later that evening — _at approximately 20:31:53_ — while Connor sat with Sumo on the couch, watching more TV. Besides what had occurred that morning, Connor’s day had been rather uneventful, he had finished his tasks (and had tried hard not to think about the gun on the fridge when he fed Sumo again), and had once again found himself with nothing in particular to do. So he had sat down on the couch, turned on the TV to a random channel, and watched. He found that he wanted to see what other kinds of TV shows there were — he had, after all, only seen sitcom reruns. Surely there had to be more. At some point, Sumo had joined him on the couch. 

  
Hank toed off his shoes, shook of his jacket, and grumbled his way over to his recliner. Sumo’s tail began to wag as he got closer, and the dog even lifted his head, but he made no effort to get off of the couch. Plopping himself into the chair, Hank sighed. He looked to the TV, where Connor had muted whatever movie it was he was watching (he still wasn’t sure what the protagonists were “avenging.”). Still looking at the TV, Hank spoke. 

  
“They had me on paperwork duty all day. Guess that’s what I get for slogging Perkins.” Hank grinned. “Though, I’d probably do it again. That bastard got what was comin’ to him.”

  
Connor hummed, agreeing with the lieutenant. In his personal opinion - _when had he formed opinions?_ \- Perkins might very well be on par with Detective Reed on terms of being an asshole. Jeez, now he was calling people assholes. Hank really was rubbing off on him. “Is the FBI still all over the precinct?” Connor asked. 

  
“Not quite as bad as before,” Hank said, “but yeah, a lot of them were still there. Didn’t talk to most of them, though.” 

  
There was a more pressing question for Connor, one he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know the answer to. “Are… Are the police androids still there?” 

Hank looked over at Connor. The android was grateful that Hank wasn’t giving him that look from this morning. Although, it was still a look that Connor didn’t quite know the meaning of. “No, not when I got there,” Hank said, “I think Jeff let them go. Maybe he was worried dickheads like Gavin would hurt them, same reason you couldn’t go in.” 

  
Connor nodded. He supposed that made sense. He wondered when the androids had left, if any of them were actually deviants, or still stuck in their programming. He knew that Jericho hadn’t managed to get to all of the androids in Detroit, much less the entire country. Connor was more curious to know if the other androids would return to their work at the police station. Or if he was the only one who wanted to go back to what he was built to do. He doubted Hank had an answer to that.

  
After a beat of silence, Hank asked a question of his own. “What about you, how was your day?”

  
I found your gun and contemplated shooting myself. “Uneventful. Sumo knocked me over this morning when I tried to feed him.” Hank let out a loud laugh at that. “Other than that, I cleaned, and when I finished that, I turned on the TV.”

  
“You been checking the news, or have you just been watching old Marvel movies?” Hank asked. Connor had in fact checked the news during commercials of the movies. 

  
“I’ve come to the conclusion that the news can say a lot of words without actually saying anything at all,” Connor reported. It wasn’t a lie. Every news station was trying to say something about the Android Uprising, but all of them were reporting the same things: Congress was in deep debate on how to deal with androids in terms of the laws and Constitution, with President Warren trying to mediate both political parties; meanwhile, violence against androids across the country continued to rise. 

  
Hank laughed at Connor’s response to the news. “Well if that ain’t the truth.” 

  
The two were quiet as the movie playing showed a special agent being killed by a poor depiction of a Norse god. Were the protagonists avenging this fallen agent? Sumo rested his head on Connor’s thigh, wagging his tail. It occurred to the android that the dog had not been outside in — _four hours and eleven minutes_ — quite some time. “I believe Sumo would like to go on a walk.”

  
Whoever said that dogs do not understand human language had not seen the sheer excitement that passes through a canine upon hearing the word “walk.” Sumo bounded off the couch, nearly crashing into the coffee table. He ran in circles while both Connor and Hank got up. 

  
“I’ll go with you,” Hank said, “Like I said, been working at a desk all day, and I wanna stretch my legs.” 

  
Connor smiled. Perhaps his insistence on Hank to take his health more seriously was rubbing of onto the older man. The duo made their way to the door, where Sumo was shaking his butt with joy in the air. Hank grabbed the leash, as Connor had already walked the dog several times that day. Hank then got his winter coat and gloves, which had hardly gotten the time to melt the snow on them. With that, they were off. 

It was snowing outside, as one might expect from a late Michigan evening in November. The temperature was twenty-nine degree Fahrenheit — _negative one-point-six-seven degrees Celsius_ — and Hank’s car was accumulating a decent amount of snow on its roof. Hank grumbled at the prospect of having to get all of it off of his car in the morning. Connor himself did not care for the continued snowfall; his only experience with anything like a blizzard had been an unpleasant one. 

  
“Jeff wants me there at the ass crack of dawn,” Hank explained, “Never mind that I got kidnapped like, three fuckin’ days ago.”

  
“Did you tell him you were kidnapped?” Connor asked. They had not discussed what Hank had dealt with on the night of the Uprising.

  
Hank was quiet for a moment; Sumo was pulling at his leash, eager to get farther than just the driveway. “Hm. Suppose I didn’t. Didn’t really get a chance to, either.” 

  
“It’s healthy to discuss traumatic events with those you are close to,” Connor offered. 

  
“Do I look traumatized to you?” Hank scoffed. They turned right from the house, letting Sumo make his own path, within reason.

  
Connor regarded the man beside him. He could think of several responses to this question, but it would be best to play it safe, less he upset Hank. “Many would consider being kidnapped by someone who looks and sounds exactly like your partner, then facing a near death situation and having to kill said someone, a traumatic event.” 

  
Hank side-eyed the android. He hated it when Connor was definitely right. “Yeah, yeah, maybe so.” A pause. “Y’know, people would probably consider having to convince your partner not to shoot you and then leading a bunch of people to their possible deaths a traumatic event.” 

  
Connor duplicated Hank’s side eye with ease. The lieutenant was grinning. “Yes, maybe so.”

They continued down the street until they came across a stop sign, where Sumo deemed it fit to “ _do his business_.” Connor attempted to get him away from the sign and not pee on public property, but Hank had laughed and told him to “let the dog live his life.” When Sumo was done, they continued down the street perpendicular to theirs. 

  
The snow began to pick up in earnest. Connor checked the weather to discover that there was a ninety-three-point-three percent chance that it would continue to snow throughout the night, with varying degree of harshness. He told Hank this. 

  
“Well, that’ll be interesting,” Hank said. “With all of the shit going down in the city, who knows if they’ll send snow plows out. Roads’ll be fucked.” 

  
Around them, fat snowflakes fall onto their heads and shoulders and weave their way into Sumo’s thick fur. Connor does some calculations in his mind — _if the snow continues to fall at this thickness for the next seven to eight hours considering the ninety-three-point-three chance, then the amount of snow by tomorrow morning when the Lieutenant must leave for work will be…_ — and decides that yes, the roads will indeed be “fucked.” Connor is about to offer to get up early in the morning and shovel the driveway and perhaps clear off Hank’s car, when Sumo sees someone attempting to ride their bike in the thick snow. Connor supposes that this person likely did not read the weather forecast this morning. 

  
Sumo tugs at his leash. Hard. Hank’s arm goes flying forward and an unhealthy popping sound — _Connor checks the sound against his database and concludes that it does not sound like a shoulder dislocating_ — accompanies it. The leash shoots out of Hank’s hand, and Sumo bounds off to say hello to his newfound friend as the snow continues. 

  
“Damn it!” Hank yells while clutching his shoulder. Dislocated or not, Connor is not surprised that it ails the lieutenant. “Sumo! Get back here you dope!” Sumo ignores this and continues on his merry way. 

  
Connor begins to run after the dog, trying to balance speed with not falling, which is more difficult with how wet the ground now is. Additionally, with the snow now picking up, it’s getting harder to see at a far distance, even with Connor’s perfect twenty-twenty vision. It causes him to wonder if, as he is a prototype of the RK800 model, the fully functional RK900 model would have been equipped with thermal detection scanners. He supposed no one would ever know, now. 

  
The rate at which the snow was falling mixed with the fact that Sumo was already partially covered in the white substance made it difficult for Connor to see which way he should be running. He could hear Hank grumbling behind him, struggling to keep up with the android. Though Connor could not see Sumo himself, he could recall which direction the bicyclist was heading, and he knew that there was a good — _seventy-two-point-four_ — chance that the dog would try to follow the newcomer. Connor turned to pursue, and several things happened. 

First, a strong gust of wind blew. This caught Connor off guard, as he would be ashamed to admit. Along with his current speed and his change in direction, this caused Connor to slip on the snow. This is step two. Step two-point-five is Connor falling to the ground head first. Thirdly, Connor spends a moment on the ground, trying to recollect himself. Despite the fact that androids can withstand several more bullet wounds than humans can, falling onto concrete head first can still frazzle one’s systems. Connor’s LED began to spin yellow. 

  
When Connor opened his eyes — a _pproximately fourteen-point-seventy-five seconds after colliding with the wet pavement_ — he was disoriented, to say the least. In the few seconds he had been on the ground, his systems had done what humans would perhaps call a soft reboot. The human equivalent of fainting, or being knocked out. All he could see was the white of snow. Too much snow. Connor felt cold. His LED continued to spin yellow, until it turned a neon red. He knew where he was. 

  
The Garden. He was back in the Garden. He must have returned when he hit the ground, returning to his subconscious area. Connor was on his feet in milliseconds. Was CyberLife taking this opportunity of Connor’s weakness to try and overtake him again? Connor whipped his head, back and forth, searching for answers that he could not find. All he could see was white, in every direction. Why would CyberLife want to take control now?

  
_Whoever said that they had stopped controlling him_? Connor stopped moving, even his breathing functions momentarily stopped. 

_**Stress Levels ↑↑↑ 59.2%** _

What if CyberLife had taken control of him the night of the Uprising, and everything Connor had experienced afterward was a simulation to keep him docile? Meeting with Hank at the Chicken Feed, staying at Hank’s house, walking Sumo, it could have all been a lie. Connor had no definitive proof to say otherwise. Knocking his head and the subsequent soft reboot must have knocked him back into what the Garden normally looked like. Connor wrapped his arms around himself on instinct. The wind blew around him, and Connor squeezed his eyes shut to protect them from the snow. This was the night of the Uprising all over again. 

  
All he had to do was find the stone. Kamski’s stone, the back door. He must not have used it correctly the first time, and something went wrong. If he tried it again, maybe he could get out for real this time. A gust of snow-filled wind hit Connor, and his breathing functions resumed, faster than they should have been. Connor figured that his internal systems must be overheating with the current rush of panic he was feeling. He wondered if his real self — _the one that was being controlled by CyberLife, his physical self_ — was showing any signs of Connor’s internal struggle, or if CyberLife had managed to block off any underlying layers of Connor’s deviancy to a remote location of his subconscious. Connor did a full three-hundred-sixty degree turn in an attempt to locate any semblance of the stone that could potentially send him back into control of his own body. He had to move fast; he had no idea what his physical self could have done or was currently doing — it was entirely possible that “Connor” had already done damage to both the Uprising and his friends… for all Connor knew Markus Manfred was dead by his own hand in the real world. Connor took a few steps in a random direction, his thoughts growing more frantic. 

  
As Connor began his search in earnest, he heard movement behind him, and heavy breathing. “Connor! Any sign of Sumo?” 

  
Connor turned to see Lieutenant Hank Anderson. At least, what looked like Lieutenant Hank Anderson. CyberLife must have known about his attachment to the policeman, and was using Connor’s deviant feelings against him. They’d changed his keeper from Amanda to Hank. The thought of Hank trying to thwart Connor from freedom made the android hold himself tighter. 

_Stress Levels ↑ 64.7%_

As the silence drifted to awkwardness, Hank’s face shifted. It was a look Connor had seen earlier that same day. 

**_ Conclusion_ **   
**_Hank Anderson is worried about me._ **

No… the fake Hank Anderson was worried about him. He wasn’t real, none of this was real. Connor had to get out before he fell for CyberLife’s trick. 

“Connor?” the man said. There was a carefulness to his voice. “You okay? Your LED’s, uh, red.” 

  
Connor did not respond. This was all an elaborate trick to get him to comply to CyberLife’s wishes. If Hank was his new keeper, that meant that he would try to prevent Connor from getting out. Connor needed to get out. He knew he could take the real Hank Anderson in a fight if he had to, but would a simulation of the lieutenant be the same? Or would this simulation come with perks for the lieutenant?

_**Stress Levels ↑↑ 75.9%** _   
_**Stress Levels are at dangerous level. Seek assistance.** _   
_**Warning: Internal core at 195.8 degrees Fahrenheit / 91 degrees Celsius. Cooling down functions increasing.** _

Hank moved closer to the android. “Stay back!” Connor yelled. His breathing was increasing at a rapid pace, his systems trying to prevent him from overheating. Hank did as he was told, and the concern on his face was increasing. The human held his hands up in front of him, between himself and Connor. The RK800 had the sense that he needed to get far away, but he did not know where to, or how. Connor wondered if this is what caged animals felt like. 

  
“Alright, Connor, just, just calm down. I’m not gonna hurt you or…” Hank began. He seemed to realize something, and it troubled him. “Connor are you… are you crying?”  
Connor brought a hand up to his face and found that sure enough, liquid was coming out of his eyes. It was not as clear as human tears might have been, as it was tinted blue with overheated thirium. He was overheating more than he thought he was. 

_**Stress Levels ↑ 79.8%**_  
 _ **Stress Levels are at dangerous level. Seek assistance.**_

“I…” Connor said. He knew he needed to calm down, but the more he tried to focus the more his thoughts scattered and the more scared he became. A CyberLife Hank had no reason to actually care as to whether or not Connor was crying, and would know that Connor’s crying would mean he is overheating; a real, human Hank probably would not know that androids can cry. Then again, CyberLife probably wants Connor to think this Hank is more realistic, so by that logic this is an appropriate reaction. Connor didn’t know what to think.

_**Stress Levels ↑↑ 87.7%** _   
_**Stress levels at dangerous level. Seek immediate assistance.** _

“Connor.” The android in question looked to the lieutenant, who still had an air of concern to him, yet his face was scrunched up in thought. Like he knew what to do. Amanda always looked like she knew what to do — but Amanda had never looked concerned. “Name five things you can see.” 

  
“What?” Connor asked. Why would he do that? It was the Garden, he knew what the Garden looked like, he didn’t need to prove anything.

  
“Just try it,” Hank said. He looked so sure of himself. “Please.”

  
Five things he could see. Connor could do that. Connor told himself he was only doing it because he could hardly think straight, and not because he was letting himself fall for this fake Hank. Connor expected his list of things to include things like a frozen over stream, a small boat, maybe even a dying cherry blossom tree. He did not see any of these, however; his list was much more boring. 

  
“Snow,” Connor began. His eyes were erratic in trying to find more things to list. “There are trees down the street. The house across the street. You. … Tire tracks on the ground?”

  
The last one puzzled Connor. Why would there be tire tracks in the Garden? That didn’t make sense; there had never been any kind of vehicle in the Garden, save for the boat, but a boat would not leave tire tracks. Perhaps it was to trick Connor into thinking he wasn’t in the Garden and that he was in reality, because CyberLife had thought ahead and added tire tracks to make the world more convincing. Or maybe they anticipated Connor knowing that they were tricking him and it was some sort of other trick. Connor’s face twisted; this was all getting very complicated.

  
  
**_Stress Levels ↑ 92.2%_**

**_Stress Levels at dangerous level. Seek immediate assistance._ **

“Uh.” Hank was talking again. He had his eyes closed, deep in concentration. “Shit, it’s…. Right, okay, name four things you can touch.” 

  
Why was Hank asking these things? It had nothing to do with the problem at hand. It could all be a distraction from Connor getting back to the real world. But he didn’t know what else to do. “The jacket you’ve let me borrow.” Connor took a fistful of the jacket, emphasizing this point. He rubbed his thumb over the material, which was rough yet somehow soothing to him. None of this made sense. “The ground. The snow on the ground. You, hypothetically, I suppose?”

  
  
_**Stress Levels ↓ 88.3%**_  
 _ **Stress Levels at dangerous level. Seek immediate assistance.**_

“Okay, good,” Hank said. He looked more confident in what he was saying now. He had moved a few steps closer to the android, who had not objected yet. Connor was still breathing hard, but no fresh tears were forming. The LED at his temple was red and blinking sporadically, much like the android’s rapid fire thoughts of panic. “What are three things you can hear?”

  
“The wind,” Connor said. “Your voice. Barking, but it’s quiet.” 

  
“Great.” Hank was within arms reach now. 

**_Stress Levels ↓↓ 79.8%_ **   
**_Stress Levels at dangerous level._ **

“Two things you can smell.” 

  
Connor sniffed the air. “I can smell carbon dioxide and nitrogen, likely from a car’s exhaust pipe. I can also smell someone baking chicken somewhere nearby.” 

  
Hank smiled. He rested his hand onto Connor’s shoulder, his movements slow, prepared to jerk back if Connor said so. “Could go for some of that right about now. And I’m not gonna ask you for something you can taste, ‘cause I don’t want you goin’ and lickin’ me.” 

  
Hank’s smile morphed into something more forced as Connor continued to stare at him. His stress levels were, while still at an unhealthy level, at a manageable point, and every so often his LED switched from red to yellow. Yet Connor still felt on edge. He did not move to push Hank’s hand off of him, but he also did not move to embrace the man. 

  
“Connor… What’s wrong?” Hank asked. Connor did not know how to proceed. It was Hank — Do not trust him this is all lies. The longer he stayed with Hank, fake or not, the more time he wasted to returning to the real world, which could possibly save lives. How many people could he have killed in reality?

_**Stress Levels ↑ 81.2%** _   
_**Stress Levels at dangerous level.** _

“Whoa whoa, hey there,” Hank said. The man must be reacting to whatever his LED was doing, because Connor had not moved. He now had both hands on Connor’s shoulders; the force he omitted was not oppressive, rather it was grounding. A way to pull Connor out of his thoughts. “Talk to me, Connor. What’s up.”

  
Connor was frustrated with his lack of understanding. He was a state-of-the-art android with a supercomputer for a mind unlike the which the world had ever seen. So why couldn’t he just say what he was feeling? Perhaps it was because he was not actually a deviant, and the machine the government thought him to be. A machine cannot understand emotions. Yet the same could be said about humans and their emotions. 

  
“I…” Connor tried to start. He had never had to try to explain what was on his mind before. Never in his almost four months of life had he ever been asked to explain himself — unless Amanda thought he was failing at his mission, that is. “How do I know any of this is real?”

  
Hank blinked at him, caught off guard by such a deep question. Connor could not seem to stop himself from talking more. “What if this is all just - just some trick to keep me docile. What if CyberLife anticipated me deviating and I’m just doing what they want. God, Hank, I could hurt you. If you’re even actually you.”

  
Hank was quiet. Connor wanted to kick and scream and get away, but he didn’t know why. This was all confusing him, and it felt like he wasn’t even really standing there in the November cold, snow blowing all around them. The longer the silence wore on the further away Connor felt from the situation.

  
Hank squeezed his shoulder and spoke, “I’m not going to lie to you, Connor. I’m not going to stand here in the snow and tell you that of course this is real, and that everything’s okay. Clearly it’s not.” Hank paused, looking to see if Connor was hearing what he was saying. Connor was returning from his haze and listening to every word. “But I can tell that you feel like shit right now, and that I’m… Shit, kid, I’m worried about ya.” 

  
Hank looked to be out of things to say, and Connor stared at the ground. Snow was beginning to pile on the top of his shoes. Hank couldn’t tell him if anything was real. Could anyone? Something bumped into Connor’s right leg. 

  
Behind him was Sumo, whose tail was wagging with excitement, panting with exhaust. Apparently he had returned from his fun little adventure of “run away and scare the shit out of my owner.” Connor turned to find that standing behind Sumo was the bicyclist who the dog had chased after, bike at their side.

  
“Oh, is he your dog?” they asked, “Great! I just wanted to make sure he got home safe. Nearly made me crash my bike, but I can tell he’s a good dog.” 

  
Hank gave the bicyclist a forced smile. Connor knew he did not want to have to make small talk if he could avoid it. “Yeah, he’s something. Thanks for making sure he got back.” 

  
“Oh, sure, sure.” The person eyed the two of them, their gaze resting for a moment on Connor’s right temple. “Everything okay?”

  
By their tone, they did not mean any harm. Connor knew this. Yet with this stranger gawking at him and asking him questions, and Connor still not entirely convinced that any of this was real, the android shrunk away from this newcomer. Hank stepped in front of Connor. “Yeah, we’re good, just didn’t expect Sumo here to run off like that. Thanks again for bringing him back. Have a good night.” 

  
With that, Hank grabbed Sumo’s leash, which was now wet with snow, and handed it to Connor. Connor ran his thumb over the rough, damp texture of the leash and somehow felt comforted. Yet another enigma to add to his list tonight, it seemed. Hank, with his hand still on Connor’s shoulder, turned the both of them around, back in the direction of their house. The last Connor saw of the bicyclist was them smiling and waving as they turned in the other direction to leave. Connor did a quick face scan, saving their address in his memory bank. They would have to do something nice to thank their neighbor for helping return Sumo. 

* * *

The front door closed with a thud behind them. Sumo shook in an attempt to get the snow off of his fur, to a low degree of success. Connor suspected that it would begin to smell like wet dog shortly. Hank hung up his coat as Connor began to take off his boots. The lieutenant pushed past the android towards the kitchen. By the time Connor joined him there, Hank was pouring himself a second glass of whiskey. 

  
“Lieutenant,” Connor said, “Do you really-”

  
Hank cut him off. “So we gonna talk about what happened out there, or are you just going to pretend it didn’t happen?”

  
Connor closed his mouth, accompanied by an audible clack of his teeth slamming against each other. His gaze shifted from the lieutenant to the floor. Sumo had curled up on a stray blanket on the floor, watching them. If those was all some cruel joke from CyberLife, they had made it very convincing. Connor’s body felt too heavy and unnaturally light at the same time — stupid, that makes no sense.

  
Hank laughed, a joyless thing. “Guess that answers that.”

  
“Lieutenant,” Connor started. 

  
“Hank.” Connor looked back up at the older man, confused. “I told you to call me Hank when you started living here. That doesn’t change just cause you had some android panic attack.”

  
Connor still would not meet the human’s eyes. Hank sighed. “Alright, he said, “Can’t say I’m in any position to make people talk about their feelings and shit. Especially when you’re new to the whole emotions thing. Just… Can you tell me what caused it? So I can, y’know, avoid that? You don’t have to go in depth.” 

  
Connor had to think for a moment, back to just before he’d started having, as Hank called it, an “android panic attack.” He’d slipped and his hit head, and when he opened his eyes the only thing he could see was white. “The snow. I think. There was a lot of it and it… reminded me of something I’d rather not remember. I’m not sure.” A pathetic answer, in Connor’s opinion. It barely told Hank anything; it wasn’t as though Hank could control the weather and make it stop snowing. 

  
But Hank only nodded. He did not comment on the fact that Connor did not want to remember something despite the fact he’d barely been alive four months. Hank was well aware that they’d been a hectic few months. All he said was, “Alright. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

  
With that, Hank drank the last of his drink in one gulp, and Connor was pleased to watch him put the glass in the sink rather than refill it. Hank did not question him any more on the matter, and instead went and turned the TV back on. The credits for the movie Connor had been watching were rolling, and a caption in the lower right corner advertised the next movie in the series. Connor joined him in the living room, and by the time Hank retired for bed, Connor still could not be sure that this wasn’t the Garden — wasn’t a ploy to keep him docile and obedient as CyberLife’s puppet — but he was certain that he was more then ready for this day to be over. 

  
With Sumo at his feet on the couch, Connor entered his rest mode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Updating weekly? It's apparently more likely than you'd think.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of last night, Hank encourages Conner to go visit the other androids at Jericho. Not seeing a reason to say no, Connor goes and discovers that he may actually fit in there... maybe, anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little bit longer than any of the other ones, but next week's chapter is probably going to be a bit late, so I'm sort of compensating. I just started another semester at college so my life is hectic right now.

Connor was correct in his estimate that it would continue to snow for most of the night, though the precipitation had stopped around four that morning. Connor awoke out of stasis mode at four-thirty A.M., as Hank had mentioned he needed to be at the precinct at the “ass crack of dawn.” He’d guessed at when exactly the dawn would show its metaphorical ass. Sure enough, Hank was not yet awake. Sumo had spent the night in the living room with Connor —  _ dogs were skilled at picking up the emotions of those around them, even if the emotions were coming from a machine _ — and so Connor sent Sumo into the police lieutenant’s room to wake him up. Connor could hear the shouts of anguish as he put his shoes on and exited the home with a shovel. 

The snow came up to Connor’s calves, meaning about five inches. Compared to other states in the country, five inches was nothing. However, for mid-November in Detroit, it was slightly odd. Connor knew there was nothing he could do about the weather patterns of Detroit and any effects climate change was having on the Earth, and figured the least he could do was shovel the driveway for Hank, perhaps even scrap off his car if he got the chance. It was not heavy snow, and so the main problem was the amount of it. Connor had no trouble lifting and tossing the snow, and was even challenging himself to throw all of the snow into one massive pile in the center of the front yard. The pile was quite sizable when Hank opened the front door to look out at Connor.

“The hell- woah.” The lieutenant was not out of his sleep clothes, though it appeared that he had at least brushed his teeth and did something with his hair. He was holding a steaming mug of what was presumably coffee. He was currently marveling at the giant mound of snow in his yard. “You buildin’ a fuckin snowman or something?”

Connor straightened himself. “No, just clearing the driveway for you, Hank.” As if to prove his point, the android tossed another shovel-full of snow onto his mountain. 

“Huh,” Hank mumbled. He took a sip of his coffee. “Thanks. I can do my car, at least.” 

“It’s really no problem, Hank.” Connor pushed some of the snow off the top of the old car, careful not to scrap vehicle with the shovel. 

Hank was quiet. Connor turned to see him watching, considering the android. Another sip of coffee, and he said, “You know you don’t… you don’t have to do stuff for me, right?”

Connor frowned. Connor was well aware of the fact that, since he deviated and CyberLife was in disarray, he didn’t have to do anything. In truth he didn’t know what to do with himself most days without given objectives. “I know, Hank. I thought… I thought this would be a nice thing to do. Something useful.” 

Hank’s face morphed into something Connor couldn’t place. He looked upset; not quite angry, but just general displeasure. Connor got the sense that he had said something wrong. 

“You don’t have to be useful, Connor, jeez.” Hank dragged his free hand down his face. “You just gotta be  _ you _ .”

Connor looked away from Hank. He still had a strip or two of the driveway to clear off. Instead of saying anything else, Connor went back to shoveling. He heard Hank sigh, quiet enough that Hank probably didn’t want him to notice. The front door closed as Connor’s next shovel full of snow hit the giant pile on the lawn. 

Connor entered the house after both the driveway and Hank’s car were cleared. By that point, Hank was dressed and was pouring more coffee into a travel mug. It was five-twelve in the morning. Connor removed his boots and coat, and set the shovel on a towel that he had placed near the door before going out, so as to not ruin the floor. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, unsure if he was welcome in.

**Initiating Facial Scan…**

**Scan Complete**

**Results:**

**_Police Lieutenant Hank Anderson_ **

**_Age: 53 (DOB: 09/06/1985)_ **

**Initiating Condition Scan…**

**Scan Complete**

**Results:**

**_Low amount of sleep._ **

**_Acute alcohol withdrawal._ **

**Scanning Face For: Emotion**

**Scan - Complete**

**Results:**

**_51% Exhaustion_ **

**_19% Frustration_ **

**_21% Uncertainty_ **

**_8% Concern?_ **

**Conclusion:**

**_Hank Anderson is…_ ** **_ERROR_ ** **_, Condition Unclear. More information required._ **

“Hank?” Connor said. Hank’s hands tightened around his mug as he screwed the lid onto it. “Are you… Did I do something wrong?”

Hank turned towards Connor and scowled. Scowling meant anger. Hank was upset with Connor. Connor had the sudden inclination to hide behind the door frame. He resisted the urge and remained where he stood. 

Regardless, it appeared that Hank could sense the android’s unease. Again Hank sighed, leaning back against the counter while still looking at Connor. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Oh. Okay.” They were both quiet. It was now five-sixteen A.M.. Hank would have to leave for work soon. Despite saying Connor did not do anything wrong, Hank still seemed on edge. “I’m sorry if I upset you.” 

Hank squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the counter. Another wrong dialogue choice. Connor did not know how to describe what he was feeling at the moment, but he hated it. 

“Connor, look,” Hank began. It looked like he was having trouble forming his words. “You don’t have to be useful and shit, alright?”

He had said the same thing outside. “Alright.”

“I get it, you’re new to free will and feelings and shit,” Hank continued. “But you’re not… You’re not a tool, y’know?”

In some form, Connor did know. Deviated androids did not see themselves as tools for humanity to use, but rather as free, independently thinking people. And yet there was a large part of Connor that could not accept this for himself. He had done many wrongs in his short lifespan, hunting down people he now knows did not deserve any of what the world was giving them. CyberLife had certainly never treated him as anything more than a tool. Really, Hank was the only one who didn’t, at this point; even then, when the two had first met Hank was extremely anti-android, and only saw differently after being forced to work with Connor. 

Connor did not know how to reply. He felt —  _ androids do not feel  _ — as though he deserved to be treated like a tool. That’s all he was. What else was there for him to be? Connor’s continued silence gave Hank the opportunity to make his way over to the android. Connor looked up to him —  _ when and why did he ever look down?  _ — and saw that whatever anger or frustration Hank had been expressing beforehand was gone, now replaced with something more like worry.

**Conclusion**

**_Hank Anderson is worried._ **

“Connor,” Hank said, “You are not a tool. You’re not some object that has to do things just because someone else said you had to. You’re you. Even if you don’t know who that is yet.” 

“What if.” How was he supposed to articulate emotions he was not even beginning to understand. “What if I never know who that is? What if that person is terrible?” 

Hank thought. While he did he looked hard at Connor. Then he broke into a small smile. “Well shit, kid. You really think humans just pop out knowing who they are? I didn’t have my shit together till I was like, thirty at least. It’s part of the learning curve of life.” 

“And what if I don’t like who I am?” Connor asked. Whatever smile had been on Hank’s face was gone; the man looked more serious, eyes narrowing somewhat. 

“Well, then you and I will be in the same boat. And we’ll figure it out together, I guess.” 

This confused Connor, but did not surprise him. He knew that Hank did not have the best mental health —  _ he wasn’t stupid; watching someone drink themselves unconscious and play Russian Roulette is a dead giveaway to poor mental health  _ — but Connor of course, did not see Hank the way the man saw himself. To Connor, Hank was kind and caring, albeit with a rough exterior. He’d have to be kind to offer his home to an android he’d known for about a week. 

When Connor didn’t reply, Hank spoke up. “Listen, why don’t you go out today? Go see the other androids, maybe, see how they’re doing. Just be sure to cover your LED.” 

It wasn’t as though Connor had any other plans for the day, except to walk Sumo maybe —  _ a stupid idea, considering last night’s events _ . He wasn’t sure the other androids would even want to see him, but there was only one way to find out for sure. Markus had invited him to live with them, so surely that invitation meant he could at least visit. 

“Okay,” Connor said. “I think I will.” 

Hank smiled, an actual smile this time. “Good. I gotta run to the station, but I’ll be back around like, six tonight? Something like that. Station is probably still a shit show, but maybe if I actually do my paperwork I can get out early.” 

Connor smiled back. 

  
  


**Message To: RK200 #684-842-971. Sent 05:18:03**

**_Hello, Markus. I hope you are well. I simply wanted to check with you and see if it was alright if I visited._ **

**Message From: RK200 #684-842-971. Received 05:18:41 **

**_Of course Connor! You are always welcome. I am sending an attachment of Jericho’s current coordinates. It’s a little hectic here this morning, why don’t you come around three?_ **

**Message To: RK200 #684-842-971. Sent 05:19:07**

**_Excellent, thank you. I will see you at three._ **

**Message From: RK200 #684-842-971. Received 05:20:04 **

**_See you soon :)_ **

The walk to Jericho’s new location took Connor around twenty-one minutes and thirty-seven seconds at an average human walking pace. As advised, he wore a hat that went down low enough to cover the LED at his temple. Hank had let him borrow some more clothes. 

“I don’t sweat, Hank,” Connor had told him as Hank quickly shoved some of his old clothes into Connor’s arms. “I don’t need so many clothes, they don’t get dirty as quickly.”

Hank looked at him like he had something stuck to his face. Connor did a scan in a millisecond and felt nothing on his face that he did not expect. “Sure, you don’t need that many clothes, maybe,” Hank had said. “But what if you want them. Besides, you’ll look dumb wearing the same thing every single day. I’ll take you shopping when the stores start opening back up.” 

Even now, as Connor approached the coordinates that Markus had sent him, he did not understand why Hank thought he needed more clothes. He was fine in his usual clothes, wasn’t he? Connor somewhat missed the weight of his suit jacket on his shoulders, now replaced with one of Hank’s old DPD sweaters —  _ fraying at the edges, a loose string on the left cuff that should be cut, and a stain on the back right shoulder _ — but he did look more… normal, he supposed. 

Someone was standing outside the building that the coordinates led Connor to. Two someones, actually. Even from a distance Connor could tell one of them was Markus, the deviant leader himself. But he was unfamiliar with this second figure; likely someone who was there the night of the Uprising, but that night was a blur, if Connor was being honest. The closer Connor got to the duo, however, the less Connor wanted to meet this newcomer. 

It was a PL600 model android. Blond hair, blue eyes. The spitting image of PL600 #369-911-047. Daniel. But this was not Daniel. Daniel had died the first day Connor had lived. A life of servitude, yes, but Connor had been activated that day. He had gotten Daniel killed. Promised him everything would be alright, and as soon as he had let the girl go —  _ the girl who had been his friend  _ — watched as he was shot to death. Connor remembered just how mangled the body was, had seen it then and again in the evidence locker. Definitively not “alright.”

Connor could picture Daniel’s missing face component on this PL600. But this was a different model, #501-743-923. Not Daniel. 

**_Stress Levels ↑ ↑ Fifty-four-point-seven percent._ **

“Connor,” Markus said as the RK800 approached. “It’s good to see you. How have you been?”

Connor tore his eyes away from the PL600. “I have been alright. I am staying with Lieutenant Hank Anderson.” 

“A human.” It was not a question, yet Connor could tell the PL600 wanted more information. “I don’t mean to be rude, but… why are you staying with a human? Who’s a police officer.”

“Have we met?” Connor would not look him in the eye. He was avoiding the other android’s questions and they both knew it. 

“Oh, sorry,” he said, extending his hand for Connor to shake. “My name’s Simon. Can’t blame you for not recognizing me, I only saw you in the crowd during… well, you know.” 

Connor did know. He also did not want to shake Simon’s hand. Or look at him. But none of that was Simon’s fault, so Connor accepted the handshake. “I’m Connor, but I’m going to guess you already knew that. It’s nice to meet you, Simon.”

Markus was smiling. He seemed pleased that the two were getting along — _ on the surface, at least  _ — and Connor hoped that this meant the other androids would be as welcoming. He wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t. “Well now that we all know who’s who, let’s go inside.” 

The new location of Jericho was meager at best. Though Connor did have to admit that it was better than the decaying boat that had previously housed the deviant androids. The building had once been an apartment complex, maybe even a hotel, but those days were long gone. With stained and peeling wallpaper and somewhat sticky floors, there was no way the building would pass inspection to allow humans to live here. Which was why the city council had offered it to the androids, for now. They had to go somewhere; Detroit already had a high human population, they did not want to add androids to that number. 

A few androids were gathered in the lobby area. Connor felt their eyes on him as he wiped his boots at the door. He could see that a few of the androids —  _ the few that still had their LEDs _ — had their LEDs go from blue to yellow. To try and placate them, Connor removed his hat, allowing his own LED to be visible. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it was yellow, too. Regardless of the condition of his own LED, Connor saw that most of the others had theirs go back to blue. 

Well, at least they didn’t all hate him immediately. That had to speak for something. An android, an AJ700, approached Markus. 

“Um, I hate to bother you, Markus, but.” Her eyes shifted to Connor, and something shifted in her expression. Confusion, probably. Maybe she knew what the RK800 was designed for. Connor looked away first. “One of the pipes on the fourth floor burst, and it’s leaking water everywhere.”

Markus sighed. “Unfortunately I’m not surprised. I’ll make sure someone fixes it before the day is over, hopefully sooner rather than later.” The AJ700 nods and turns to leave, but Markus grabs her arm. She flinches, and Markus let’s go. “And don’t worry about bothering me. I like being bothered. Especially if it’s important.”

He smiled at her, and she gave a faint smile back. Then she was gone. 

“The building is, uh.” Simon had turned to Connor and started talking. “Less than ideal, if you couldn’t tell. That’s the third pipe to break in the last twenty-four hours.” 

“Can’t you just turn the water off?” Connor asked. “I can understand why it might be nice to have but… we don’t exactly need water to survive. Especially if the pipes keep bursting like this.” 

Connor was met with silence from his two companions. Even some of the other androids that were just idly hanging out around them had turned to glance at him. Connor felt the need to apologize, but before he could Markus burst into another smile and Simon was talking again.

“That’s actually… a really good point. I can’t believe we didn’t think of that. Things have been so hectic that I guess it just slipped our minds,” Simon said. “I’m sure we can find the main water pipe somewhere, or I guess we could try contacting the city about it. I’m kind of surprised they even bothered turning it on for us, now that you mention it.” 

Markus clapped his hand onto Connor’s shoulder. “You’ve been here all of three minutes—”  _ Inaccurate. Connor had arrived four minutes and fifty two seconds ago. Markus, an RK200, should be able to keep time. _ “— And you’ve already solved one of our problems.”

“You have more than the one, then.” Connor lifted an eyebrow and looked at Markus. “Anything I can help with?” 

“Maybe,” Markus replied. “But later. You came to visit, not fix Jericho from the ground up.”

Connor did not mention that he did not have any plans when he came over to “visit,” and had been hoping deep down that Markus would give him some sort of task. Connor liked being given tasks. They were straight to the point, and he did not have to guess at what people wanted from him. Small talk, on the other hand, was a different beast.

**_Stress Levels ↑ Fifty-five-point-three percent._ **

“I can visit and help,” Connor said. “I’m excellent at multitasking.” 

Simon laughed beside him, though tried to cover it with a cough. Which, as all of them knew, androids didn’t really need to do —  _ unless there is excess dust stuck in one’s system, in which case a cough is warranted; however, this building is more damp than dusty. _ Two androids —  _ a WR400 and a PJ500  _ — entered the room together from one of the side rooms and made their way towards Markus. Markus removed his hand from Connor’s shoulder. Connor did not know if this was a good thing or a bad thing. Judging from the look of skepticism he received from the WR400, he was assuming the latter. At least the PJ500 was not giving him dirty looks. Connor had seen them before, the night of the Uprising; the other two of Markus’s inner circle.

“Markus,” the PJ500 —  _ going through memory files indicates that his name is Josh, and that the WR400 is North. _ North, at least, is not the spitting image of the two Tracis from the Eden Club. “We just finished inventory. It’s not looking —”

“If we don’t get more supplies soon we’re fucked,” North interrupted. Her eyes were focused on Connor as she said, “We lost a lot of our thirium and spare parts when Jericho blew up.” 

There was an unspoken implication that Connor was at least partially responsible for the Jericho boat blowing up, and the loss of life that entailed. Connor could not fault her for blaming him; he blamed himself too. Not that anyone had asked him. 

Markus sighed —  _ his stress levels took a slight increase _ — and brought his hand to his chin. A stereotypically thoughtful pose. Connor stayed silent, opting instead to observe each of the leaders of Jericho; Simon looked worried, his forehead creased in his own thoughtful expression; North looked angry —  _ this was not a new observation  _ — and had crossed her arms, her focus on Markus for the most part, occasionally eyeing Connor with suspicion; Josh was making it clear that he was avoiding looking at Connor, and had bitten his lip in concern. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Markus broke the silence, chin still in hand. “But we might just have to live with it for a while. CyberLife is still withholding a lot of their materials, and unless we go and raid the nearest store there’s not a lot we can do about it right now.”

“Robbing a CyberLife store is an excellent idea,” North announced. Connor glanced to the other androids present in the lobby. All eyes were on the group of five near the door. 

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Connor interrupted, “But perhaps you would rather have this discussion somewhere more private?”

The other four looked at Connor before seeing that yes, they were in fact being listened to. A lobby is not an ideal place to make big decisions for a group of people, as it turns out. 

“He’s right,” Josh said. It was the first time he’d looked at Connor the entire time. “We don’t need everyone hearing this. There’s a conference room just down the hall.”

Connor nodded, and watched as the others began to make their way out of the lobby. Markus stopped as his compatriots disappeared down the hallway. “Connor, aren’t you coming?”

He stared at Markus. Connor was not one of the leaders of Jericho, and yet here he was, being invited to a meeting that could decide the fate of every android in the building. Markus waited, making no expression that Connor could judge his meanings by. 

“Right,” Connor said. He would just stay near Markus during the meeting, and not say anything. Connor was excellent at observing. “Lead the way.”

  
  


The room was bright with the light casted in from outside; almost fluorescent white with the way the light bounced off of the snow outside. It was somewhat chilly —  _ sixty-two-point-seven degrees Fahrenheit, or seventeen-point-zero-five degrees Celsius _ — and a heater that stretched across the far wall was rattling in an attempt to warm things up. There was one large, oval-shaped table in the center of the room, with fold out chairs surrounding it.

North and Josh were not agreeable to Connor’s presence in their discussion. Both had settled on the side of the table closest to the windows, eyes watching Connor as he moved into the room. Josh, at least, was quiet in his mild disdain, where as North made it very clear that she did not think Connor should be here; whether “here” meant the room or the entire building of Jericho was up for question, though Connor had the sinking feeling that it was the latter. Simon, sitting in the middle of one side of the table, gave him an apologetic smile; Connor looked away, still having difficulty looking at the PL600. Connor took the seat closest to the door, which Markus closed behind him. 

**_Stress Levels ↑ Fifty-seven-point-eight_ **

“Right,” the deviant leader said. He settled himself at the head of the table, not too far from where Connor sat. “So we are definitely not robbing any stores.”

“Why not?!” North yelled. Connor winced; they might as well have stayed in the lobby if they were going to be yelling. “We already robbed one CyberLife store, what’s one more?” 

Connor could understand her thought process, and almost agreed. There were other factors to be considered, however.

“We didn’t exactly steal from that one, though,” Simon pointed out. “Jericho, as a group, only freed the androids there. That’s liberation, not theft.”

North floundered. The room was silent, waiting for someone to be the first to speak.

“While stealing is the fastest solution,” Markus said, “It is not one that will benefit in the long run. Does anyone have any other ideas as to how we can get more thirium and spare parts?”

Silence once more. Connor longed for his coin, but the pinging sound would be unwelcome in such a tense environment. Instead he had his hands held together with more force than was necessary, his right leg giving the occasional bounce — _ only to keep his systems in check; only humans moved in such manners during times of stress and anxiety.  _ Connor was not stressed or anxious. He wasn’t. 

“There’s got to be some thirium that’s just been abandoned around,” Josh said. He did not sound confident in his suggestion. “We could send out some people to look for it. Isn’t there an android… dump… just outside of the city? Certainly there’s spare parts there.”

Markus clenched his jaw and gripped the table at the mention of the android junkyard. It may not have been obvious to the others, but to Connor, who had been programmed for interrogation and to fit seamlessly into human society, it was clear that Markus was uncomfortable with the notion of the junkyard. Connor made a mental note not to bring up the place with Markus in the future. 

“No one is going to the junkyard,” Markus said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “But I suppose we could send out some people to look for things, so long as they stay in groups.” 

“What, so we can play scavengers?” North demanded. “We’re just going to ask our people to go out looking for corpses to loot?”

Simon winced. “She… has a point. Can we really ask people to do that? I’m sure they’ve seen enough horror in the past few days.” 

Silence. Connor hoped all of their discussions did not go as poorly as this one. It was like talking with Detective Reed; anything said would only wheel back around to being negative with no decent solution. A thought struck Connor. As much as he had wanted to stay silent for the duration of the meeting, he felt that nothing would happen if he did not speak up.

“What if…” Connor began. All eyes shifted to him, each desperate in their own way. Connor immediately wanted to take back what he had said, but he continued. “What if you asked for donations?” 

Josh gave him a blank stare and said, “Donations?” Even Markus was looking at him like he was speaking nonsense. 

“Yes.” Connor was having trouble deciding who to look at; they all wanted answers, but he only had one set of eyes. He opted to look at Markus, the leader and the one he was most comfortable with. “There are some humans who are sympathetic to your…  _ our _ cause. If they have any replacement parts or thirium in their homes perhaps they would be willing to donate it.” 

“Connor…” Simon said. Slow. Like he was speaking to a naive child. It made Connor want to look at him less than he already did. “I know you… that you’ve found one human that is good to androids, but what makes you think that there’s any more?”

It was a fair question. But Connor had been prepared to defend his claims. “On my way here this morning, I passed a group of humans yelling derogatory android terms.” The four leaders of Jericho did not seem surprised by this factoid, but all seemed either annoyed or frustrated with the idea. “However, an older woman-”  _ Lyndsay Harresburg, age sixty-one, author of two mildly successful poetry books. _ “approached them and demanded that they, I believe she said, ‘ _ shut the holy hell up, and go learn some manners. _ ’ After she made this comment, a handful of other humans joined her and the anti-android group dispersed.

“Last night, as I was walking Hank’s dog, Sumo, with him, Sumo managed to escape the both of us.” Though Simon seemed ready to comment on the group Connor had passed this morning, Connor kept speaking. “A human who was passing by returned Sumo to us and.” Connor looked down; this detail was crucial to his argument. “While I was panicking, tried to make sure I was okay. My LED was fully visible and I could tell they were aware that I was an android. Yet they still felt compelled to help in some fashion.

“Neither of these instances include humans such as Lieutenant Hank Anderson, who has been letting me, a deviant android, stay in his home. There are humans out there that are sympathetic to androids, you just have to put the effort into looking for them.” By the end of his speech, Connor was looking Simon dead in the eye. He felt more certain of what he was saying than he’d felt since becoming a deviant. But again, the room was silent. Connor continued, this time looking at Markus. “Additionally, I know for a fact that the Detroit Police Department has at least a few spare parts and a crate or two of thirium that they kept on hand for their PC200s and PM700s. Seeing as those androids are now free, the department does not have any use of the materials.”

Everyone’s attention was solely on Connor. He longed for his coin, something to take his mind off of all the eyes watching him; he gripped his hands tighter together. Connor looked away from Markus, and murmured, “It’s only an idea.”

“And not a bad one, either,” Markus said. “I know that Carl Manfred, among others, is also a human that would be willing to help us. Like Connor said, there are humans out there that are for our cause, we just have to find them.” 

Connor looked up. Simon was nodding, a faint smile on his face; Josh had furrowed his brows, and Connor could see the metaphorical wheels turning in his head as he tried to think of other ways to go through with Connor’s idea. North appeared on edge, but did not outright refuse the idea. Connor took that as a good sign. 

“I can try contacting the mayor’s office and seeing if they can do anything to help spread the word that we’re looking for donations,” Simon said. To Connor’s bewilderment, the PL600 was looking at him, not Markus. Connor felt a strange happiness to hear Simon add onto his idea; pride, he decided it was. “Maybe we can ask some of the others here if they could make signs or something, saying where to drop off donations and the like.” 

North sighed, and looked to Markus. “Yeah, okay. I’ll get some people together, whatever ones that would be willing to go out into the city to watch over donation drop offs. In groups, obviously.”

“Markus, maybe you and I can head to the police precinct today or tomorrow,” Josh said as North and Simon began planning for possible drop off locations. Before Markus could reply, Connor spoke up. 

“Perhaps it would be better if I were to talk to the police,” Connor said. “Seeing as they are already familiar with me.” 

Simon and North stopped speaking, leaving the room quiet once more. The two had gotten so caught up in the logistics of the hypothetical plan that they seemed to have forgotten Connor was there, much less the one to bring up the idea. The heater continued to make rattling sounds in its dying attempts to warm the room, but otherwise one could hear a pin drop. And now the four leaders of Jericho were watching Connor once more. 

Markus smiled. “I was just about to suggest that. With your connection to Lieutenant Anderson, I think the odds would be in your favor. Josh, I think I’d rather have you work with Simon and contact the mayor’s office and other organizations and see if they’ll donate anything. I’ll work with North and find some volunteers to oversee donations and make signs.” 

The group divulged into specifics to make their plans work, yet Connor remained quiet. He felt… eased was the only word he could think to describe. He was helping. He had a task. Connor knew how to complete tasks. As the others deliberated, Connor made a mental list of how he would proceed with his new objective. 

**Tasks**

  * **Obtain donations for Jericho**
  * **Consult Lieutenant Hank Anderson**
  * **Contact Captain Jeffery Fowler**
    * **Chance of convincing… 56%.**



**Low chance of success. Must find ways to increase.**

“Connor?” Markus asked. His voice was closer than it had previously been. Connor blinked his new list out of his vision, and realized everyone was waiting for him to reply. He had not heard what he was to reply to. Presumably this was evident his face, because North rolled her eyes and Simon smirked. 

Connor added “embarrassment” to his list of emotions he is familiar with. “Sorry, what?”

“It’s fine,” Markus reassured. “We just wanted to know if you felt okay consulting the police for donations by yourself, or if you’d like one of us to help you.” 

“I am capable of doing it on my own.” Connor frowned. He was fully functional and could manage on his own. 

“We didn’t ask if you were capable,” North said. The annoyance in her words did not match the message of what she was saying. “We asked if you wanted help with it.” 

In his short time of receiving such questions, Connor had learned that he did not enjoy being asked what he wanted. Mostly because he did not know what he wanted, and did not want to —  _ or know how to, for that matter _ — communicate this to others. Not knowing something, not being able to give an answer he was certain was correct made Connor… feel something. He hadn’t quite decided what yet. 

So whether or not he wanted help with his pursuit in convincing the DPD to donate android equipment was strange. Logically he knew he was more than capable of doing it on his own. But what if this was their way of asking him to allow one of them to accompany him, to make sure he did things right? Or perhaps it was a roundabout way of them saying that they did actually want Connor to be the one talking to the police department. There were many possibilities and Connor could not help but consider every single one. 

“Look, there’s…” North was speaking again. Any semblance of annoyance in her voice was gone. Instead she sounded… sad. “There’s no right or wrong answer. It’s just whatever you want.”

North said it like it might make Connor feel better, but Connor did not like it when there was not a right or wrong answer. And Connor was frustrated with himself; North made it sound very easy to come to an answer, and here Connor was trying to analyze every conclusion his possible answers could lead to. He knew he had to choose his words carefully.

“I am,” Connor began, speaking slowly as he mulled over his words, “not opposed to someone assisting me, if any of you want to.” Not an outright yes, but not a denial either. Excellent. 

Yet the others were quiet for approximately three-point-seven seconds after he had given his response, a time that a human may not have noticed, but which Connor knew was well over the time needed to reply to a good response. He had done something wrong. And, as always seemed to be the case since the Uprising, he did not know what. 

“I’ll go with you,” Simon said. He smiled. “Just so you know someone’s on your side in there.”

Simon was beginning to grow on Connor, though the RK800 was still hesitant to look at his face for too long. If Connor could keep Simon away from the evidence room —  _ the chances that the police had had the time to dispose of the dead android bodies during the hubris left in the wake of the Android Uprising were slim to none, and Simon did not to see an android that looked just like him that Connor had killed _ — then there shouldn’t be any problems with the PL700 going with him. Due to their goal at the police station, the chances of Simon even suggesting going into the evidence room were only fourteen-point-eight percent. Connor liked those odds. 

“Of course,” Connor replied. “When would you like to go to the station?”

Connor had never worked with a group before. He valued his partnership with Hank, of course, but that was only one person. At Jericho he worked with four others, and anticipated that he may have to work with more in the future should he continue helping Jericho. It was different, but Connor found that he didn’t mind. 

The biggest difference was trying to accommodate the various personalities he had to work with; Connor had to put a lot of thought into what he would say if he were to be on friendly terms with everyone in the room. North and Josh were the biggest problems. They had contrary viewpoints on how to go about android rights, almost comically so. North wanted immediate action, sometimes leading to violence, whereas Josh was fine with waiting things out if it meant long term success. Agree with Josh, and North would be upset; side with North, and Josh would be displeased. Markus and Simon, at least, seemed to be used to having to mediate between the two. 

Mostly, Connor just listened and watched, absorbing it all in. He was sure not to get distracted with his own personal lists again, though he did try to sneak a few objectives in here and there. And for the first time since the Android Uprising, Connor felt like he had a purpose. 

They spent another seventeen minutes and thirty two seconds discussing specific details, who would do what when, and other possible ideas that could be put to use. Simon, North, and Josh insisted that Markus not take on too much of this project, seeing as the leader of Jericho would have several other things to worry about on top of the shortage of android supplies. No one asked Connor to do any more than getting in touch with the DPD, and he did not ask for anything more to do. If he could focus enough on one single task and perform to the best of his abilities, Connor was hoping his current relationship standings with the androids of Jericho would improve. 

“Sounds like we all know what we’re doing,” Markus said. “I think we’re done here.” 

They all rose and made their way to the door. Before he could get far, Connor heard Markus call his name. “Would you like a tour of the place? It’s not much, but if you come by again you should know the layout.”

Connor smiled. He hadn’t even left yet and already Markus was talking like Connor would be welcome back any time. “Of course.”

Markus waved goodbye to his three co-leaders, who were headed back in the direction of the main lobby. Markus led Connor in the opposite direction. 

“The mayor was able to give us this old place, though my guess is that the president forced his hand,” Markus explained as they walked. “It’s not much, but it’s home for now.” 

“Maybe you’ll get some donations that will help liven the place up,” Connor suggested. He knew the chances were somewhat low —  _ forty-three-point-eight percent _ — but one could always have wishful thinking. Markus laughed, and Connor smiled. He could get used to this; being somewhere where everyone accepted him as one of their own, even if they did not particularly like him. Being a part of a group, aiding a cause bigger than just himself. 

They turned a corner, into another simple corridor. Someone else had the same idea, and ran right into Markus, who was just a step ahead of Connor. Two WR400 androids, though a different appearance than North. They were very familiar to Connor, who froze behind Markus. 

**_Stress Level ↑↑ Sixty-eight-point-three_ **

“Oh jeez, sorry Markus!” one of them said. Serial #950-455-437. Connor did not have to scan to be sure. She had changed her hair since he’d last seen her, it was red now, and shorter. He didn’t even know her name. Both WR400s were focused on Markus, and Connor felt himself step back. Would they recognize him? Of course they would. But how would they react? Connor missed Markus’s reply, only came back to the conversation when the other WR400 started talking again. 

“Did Jules tell you about the leaky pipe?” she asked. She had changed her hair, too, blond now. “Just want to make sure.” 

“She did,” Markus said. He turned to point out Connor behind him. The RK800 had to stop himself from moving back behind his friend. “And Connor here made an excellent suggestion to fix-”

Markus was cut off when the red haired WR400 pulled him back, taking a —  _ very bad  _ — defensive stance in front of him. When her partner realized who was in front of them, she took the redhead's hand; Connor noticed that she was shaking. 

“Echo, what-” Markus tried to say. 

“H-He’s the one who chased us out of the club!” the red-head, Echo, said. “What is he-”

“Why are you here?” the other WR400 said. Connor still did not know her name. She was holding onto Echo’s hand so hard that their skin was fading, revealing the white plastic beneath. They were terrified of him. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”

**_Stress Levels ↑ Seventy-two-point-seven percent_ **

No, they had not. They never did. Well, Echo had killed a man, but Connor did not blame her for that; the man had had it coming. Connor did not move or speak. Only stared at them. He did not know how he was supposed to reply. If he had developed his sense of humor more, he might have laughed at the irony of the situation. Here stood the deviant hunter, himself a deviant, standing paralyzed in front of those he let get away. 

Markus lowered Echo’s hand from in front of him, careful and slow in his motions. He stepped around the two, and stopped next to Connor. “Echo, Ripple, this is Connor. He hadn’t deviated yet when you met him, but he’s one of us now. Without him we would have died during the peace demonstration. He won’t hurt you.” The deviant leader nudged the RK800. Connor still had not made any attempt to speak, and his only movement involved him wrapping his hands into tight fists. 

“How do you know that?” Ripple asked. “He could be faking it.”

“So could any of us,” Markus pointed out. Connor could not imagine why Markus was so adamant in defending him. “Yet here we are.”

Neither of them had a response for this, but that did not stop from Echo from glaring at Connor with nothing but contempt. Ripple took turns looking between Connor and Markus. Her eyes lingered on Connor, almost like she was trying to go through every line of his code from where she stood. 

“I’m sorry,” Connor blurted. Both of the WR400s blinked in shock at his sudden decision to speak. “I’m so, so sorry. I wasn’t… I didn’t…” Connor fumbled for words, unclear how to express what he was feeling, how to communicate to the two androids before him that if he could go back and change his decisions he would never have chased them, would never have pointed a gun at them. 

Ripple’s grip on her girlfriend’s hand lessened, skin covering over the underlying plastic. Connor watched her, and any semblance of anger or fear seeping from her body. He could only describe her expression as tired. Echo was still on guard. “Okay,” Ripple said. “Yeah. I think we’ll just… go. Just… don’t come looking for us, please. I don’t think that’ll go well for either of us. Thanks for not shooting us, I guess.” 

Ripple tugged on Echo’s hand, back in the direction they had come. Connor’s appearance had ruined whatever plans they had in heading towards the main lobby. Echo released her girlfriend’s hand, and instead of going back in the direction they had come from, marched right up to Connor. She was in his personal space, but Connor could not find the will to move away. The fear on her face was still clear, yet here she was, confronting the man she clearly hated. 

“I won’t forget what you did,” she hissed. “Just because you let us escape doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten. I know what you are; you’re a danger to everyone here. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were still CyberLife’s little toy puppet.”

**_Stress Levels ↑↑↑ Eighty-seven-point-four percent._ **

**_Stress Levels at dangerous level._ **

Markus stepped in, hand on Echo’s shoulder to guide her back away from Connor. “That’s enough. I’m sorry for what happened between the three of you, but I will not allow you to berate someone who is trying to do better and right his mistakes.” 

Echo stepped back as Ripple stepped forward to meet her. The grasped hands again. With no words, they turned and left, heads dipped together. Echo was shaking, and Ripple brought a hand up to rub her back. The last Connor saw of them was Echo’s tear-stained face as she turned a corner. 

The hall was quiet for a moment. Connor was still staring at the hallway the WR400s had gone down. He only looked away when he felt Markus’s gentle hand hover just over his back. Connor closed his eyes. It had only been a two minute and forty-five second interactions, but so much had happened, so much to process. 

“Connor,” Markus spoke softly. Connor doubted any other android on the floor would have heard him. “I’m sorry.”

Connor laughed. He had never laughed before. Ever. Standard social protocol said that usually if one person laughed, others would join in. But Markus looked sad. 

“What are you sorry for?” Connor said. “It’s not your fault.”

“No,” Markus said. His hand made full contact with Connor’s back. Almost like Ripple’s comforting hand on Echo. “But I’m still sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Connor turned to face Markus. Markus let his hand drop to his side; Connor’s were still balled into fists. His breathing functions were kicking into high gear in an attempt to keep him from overheating. Again. “Everything they said was true. I shouldn’t be here.”

“Connor, no,” Markus said, stepping forward to try and close the gap between them. He stopped when Connor backed away from him, looking more concerned than before. “Connor, your stress levels-”

“I’m fine,” Connor lied. He stepped around Markus. While his tour was interrupted, Connor remembered enough to get back to the main lobby. “I’ll just go. It’s better for everyone. I’ll call you when I make progress with the police station.”

Markus tried again to stop the RK800, but it was no trouble for Connor to avoid him. Connor did not turn around but did hear Markus sigh as he made a beeline away. He walked faster than needed out of the lobby, not pausing even though he noticed Simon and North and Josh look in his direction. Simon even waved. Conner ignored them and pushed the door open. 

Connor still did not have great control over his newfound emotions and how to process them. Yet somehow he managed to hold his few tears until the Jericho hotel was no longer in sight. Even Connor could not deny that the tears were more than just a cooling function. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that next week's chapter will be late don't kill me!!! Hope you enjoyed, please leave kudos and/or comments!!!!


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After leaving Jericho with a heavy heart, Connor is now left alone with his own thoughts. And that's never a good thing, is it? 
> 
> TW for this chapter: suicide, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt. Please be aware of this before reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He isn't dead, Shia surprise! I'm back baybee. Sorry for the long unannounced hiatus... college stuff came up and then COVID happened and.... that's a lot lmao. Anyways this chapter took me way too long to write, so if you notice a weird change in pace halfway through that's cause I took like, a 5 month breath from writing oops. 
> 
> I'll say it again in case you didn't read the chapter description: This chapter deals heavily with suicide and suicidal thoughts/actions. Please please please be mindful of this. If you or someone you know is struggling with mental illness and suicidal thoughts, I urge you to call the National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-8225 if you live in the U.S., or at least check out their website if you are unable to make a call. At the end of the chapter I'll be leaving a link to a list that contains the numbers for other country's hotlines. Stay safe homies.

Walking with no destination was mind numbing while also being the perfect opportunity for Connor’s thoughts to run wild. It was currently twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit in Detroit, Michigan, and Connor was walking the empty streets. His arms were crossed in front of him, a sort of barrier between his main core systems and the cold around him. He had been walking for approximately ten minutes and thirty seven seconds, turning corners at random and not checking to see which street he was taking. Connor had no idea where he was. He could have very easily summoned a mental map of the city and get back to Hank’s house in no time, but Connor could not find it in him to care. Instead he wandered. 

**Message From:** **RK200 #684-842-971.** **Received 15:01:25**

**_Are you okay? You left before I could say much more._ **

Connor stopped in the middle of the sidewalk as he read the message. There were faint blue streaks on his face, the only indicator that not long ago the android had been crying. He blinked away the message notification, and continued on his way. Markus was surely busy and did not need Connor worrying him any further; he was just being courteous. The message had interrupted his thoughts, and Connor took in his surroundings. This was a more run-down section of the city, multiple closed business and boarded up houses with eviction notices taped to the front doors. 

**Message From:** **RK200 #684-842-971.** **Received 15:02:07**

**_I’m here if you need to talk._ **

Connor kept walking. 

* * *

A human man approached him. He was glaring at Connor’s head. He had forgotten to put his hat back on after leaving Jericho, leaving his LED for all the world to see. Oh well. 

The man was less than two feet away from him. “The fuck do you think you’re doing here, tin can?”

_ False. I am not made of tin. Most of my alloys are made from plastics, some are made of metals, but tin is not one of them _ . “I am walking.” 

“Who told you you could walk around wherever?” the man demanded. 

**_Initi_ ** **_ating Facial Scan_ **

**_Scan Complete_ **

**_Results_ ** **_:_ **

**_Sean Kirkpatrick_ **

**_Age: 32 (DOB: 12/07/06), Unemployed._ **

**_Charged with domestic violence 02/30/34. Released on parole._ **

**_Initiating Condition Scan_ **

**_Scan Complete_ **

**_Results_ ** **_:_ **

**_Recent consumption of alcohol._ **

Mr. Kirkpatrick stepped closer. The silence Connor provided while he was scanning the man’s face had agitating him more. He was now inches away from Connor’s face. Kirkpatrick shoved him backwards. When he spoke, his breath reeked of alcohol —  _ whiskey, blood alcohol level zero-point-one _ . “Listen to your makers and get the fuck out of here. Shoulda sent all of you to the scrap yards when we had the chance.” 

“If you allow me to pass through I can assure you that you will not see me again,” Connor said. Seeing this man again would be too soon. 

“Damn right I won’t,” Kirkpatrick slurred. He grabbed a hold of Connor’s borrowed jacket and pulled his other hand back into a fist. Great. A fighty drunk. 

The RK800 came equipped with several fighting and weapons protocols. Tae Kwon Doe, Okinawan karate, boxing, and Connor knew how to reload every single gun known to man. The Okinawan karate in particular was ideal for disarming opponents and defending oneself. Connor dodged Kirkpatrick’s drunken hit with ease, stepping sideways and causing the human to almost lose his balance. Instead of placating the man, it made him grow more agitated. 

“Hold fuckin’ still,” Kirkpatrick mumbled. “Gotta beat the shit outta ya.” Connor greatly preferred a drunk Hank Anderson to this; when Hank was drunk he just rambled and made little sense, but didn’t try to “beat the shit” out of him. Kirkpatrick pivoted to face Connor, looking like a strong breeze might knock him over. Connor did not want to deal with this. 

When Kirkpatrick tried to hit him again, Connor grabbed his fist. The man attempted to pull away, going so far as to grab onto his wrist with his other hand and yanking his arm. Connor stared at him as he struggled. With a flick of his own wrist, Connor pushed Kirkpatrick’s fist up, causing the man’s hand to bend back in an almost unnatural way. Kirkpatrick let out a yelp, and began pulling away with more urgency. The longer Connor watched the more it looked like the human might cry. An emotional fighty drunk, then. 

Connor released the man’s hand, and his momentum caused Kirkpatrick to fall right on his ass. He cradled his wrist and whimpered. Connor turned and continued his mindless walk. 

The last he heard of Sean Kirkpatrick, the man yelled, “Call the fuckin’ cops on ya!” 

_ Let him _ , Connor thought,  _ see if I care.  _

* * *

**Message From:** **1-555-436-682273** **. Received 17:32:47**

**_Where are you??_ **

**Message From:** **1-555-436-682273** **. Received 17:41:06**

**_Connor I know my texts go straight to your damn head text me back._ **

**Message From:** **1-555-436-682273** **. Received 17:48:10**

**_Connor I’m serious where the fuck are you_ **

**Missed Call From** **_:_ ** **1-555-436-682273** **. Received 18:00:52**

**> Update Contact Info.**

**>** **1-555-436-682273** **=** **Hank Anderson** **.**

**> Change made.**

**Missed Call From:** **Hank Anderson** **. Received 18:08:31**

**Message From:** **Hank Anderson** **. Received 18:09:10**

**_Connor I’m worried about you if this is about me leaving you alone the past couple days I’m sorry._ **

**Missed Call From:** **Hank Anderson** **. Received 18:10:06**

**Message From:** **Hank Anderson** **. Received 18:10:40**

**_I called Markus and he said he hasn’t seen you since this afternoon and that u were upset when u left._ **

**Message From:** **RK200 #684-842-971** **. Received 18:10:09**

**_I just got a call from Lieutenant Anderson saying he hasn’t seen you since this morning, and you didn’t reply to my messages earlier. Is everything alright?_ **

**> Update Contact Info**

**>** **RK200 #684-842-971** **=** **Markus**

**_>_ ** **Change made.**

**Message From:** **Hank Anderson** **. Received 18:12:50**

**_Connor if you can’t get to me I’ll come to you_ **

**Message From:** **Hank Anderson** **. Received 18:14:22**

**_Look I know you were the android that almost broke that guy’s wrist on Howard Street. I’m not mad and I’m sure the guy was a dick anyways._ **

**Message From:** **Hank Anderson** **. Received 18:15:36**

**_I’ll make sure you don’t get in trouble for it just tell me where you are_ **

**Message From:** **Markus** **. Received 18:16:13**

**_Connor please message or call me back when you can. We’re worried about you._ **

**Missed Call From:** **Hank Anderson** **. Received 18:18:27**

**Message From:** **PL600 #501-743-923** **. Received 18:18:54**

**_Hey Connor, it’s Simon. I know we don’t know each other very well but I just wanted to see if you were okay? We’re all pretty worried about you here at Jericho._ **

**Message From:** **Hank Anderson** **. Received 18:19:02**

**_Please Connor, where are you?_ **

**_> Disable Message Notifications?_ **

**_> Yes._ **

**_> Message Notifications disabled. _ **

If Connor has learned anything from today, it’s two things. One: he truly doesn’t belong anywhere, not with androids and not with humans —  _ but he had already known that, really _ . Two: the jingle he has installed for texts and calls is annoying and he should change it, if he ever turns message notifications on again. They’d stop messaging him at some point, anyways. Now that he wasn’t being bombarded with notifications, it was quiet out; an occasional gust of wind the only thing disturbing the peace. Connor trudged through the street.

Somehow the android found himself wandering around Riverside Park. It was one of the few places he’d been to in the city in which he had not been running for his life or following an objective. Being here with Hank had not been required of him, but he did it anyways. It had felt like the right thing to do; he wanted to get to know Hank better. It was jarring to think that the man who had held a gun to his head last week was now his roommate of sorts. 

Connor thought about the gun on Hank’s fridge. A point-three-five-seven Magnum revolver, holds up to six bullets —  _ though judging by the weight of the gun when Connor held it yesterday, the gun held one single bullet, _ — made in 2022, the wear on the grip of the gun suggesting that it was, at the very least, held often. Not a police-certified firearm, so it must be Hank’s personal gun. 

Despite the American Android Act of 2029 —  _ subsection P.L. five-four-four-dash-seven _ — which states that androids are prohibited from carrying or using any type of weapon, Connor has fired a gun. It was self defense, in a way; if he hadn’t shot the CyberLife Tower guards they would have turned him in and Connor would have been deactivated. But maybe things could have been different. Maybe Connor could have struck them unconscious instead. He hadn’t seen any openings for the opportunity in the spur of the moment, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t there altogether. 

It had been very easy, firing the gun. Just a simple pull of a trigger and suddenly an entire life was gone. Like it was nothing. Would it be that easy to end his own life?

**_Stress Levels ↑ Ninety-point-six percent._ **

**_Stress Levels at dangerous level. Seek immediate assistance._ **

Connor walked up to the fencing lining the park, overlooking the Detroit River. Hands gripping the bar, Connor glared out at the horizon line. He needed to stop thinking about that. But just like firing a gun, it was all too easy to get lost in the trail of terrible thoughts. Connor made a list. 

**Reasons I Should Die**

**> Could be overtaken by CyberLife at any moment. **

**> I am not welcome at Jericho.**

**> I have one singular friend (excluding dogs).**

**_> would Hank be okay if I were gone? Who would remind him to eat and not drink too much and-_ **

**> I have no purpose or objective.**

**> I am tired. **

**~~>~~** ~~**_illogical. Androids do not get tired_ ** ~~

**_ >_ ** **I’m tired.**

**_Stress Levels ↑ Ninety-three-point-three percent._ **

**_Stress Levels at dangerous level. Seek immediate assistance._ **

What was he tired of? His system may not be functioning at full percent, but he was not on low power. But still Connor felt tired; his body seemed heavier than it should of been, and making the effort to do anything was tedious and pointless. Connor hated this. He had never hated anything before, except maybe his past actions, but Connor knew in his heart that what he felt was hatred. He wanted it to stop. He wanted everything to  _ stop _ . 

**_Stress Levels ↑ Ninety-five-point-seven percent._ **

**_Stress Levels at critical level. Seek immediate assistance._ **

Connor looked into the water below. It was about a thirty feet drop — not enough to ensure death. However taking into consideration the temperature of the water, which would surely be near freezing, if not below, the likeliness of dying increased somewhat. Maybe if there was a chunk of ice and he hit his head just right… Or if he didn’t mind walking a little further, the Ambassador Bridge was in sight. That would definitely be tall enough to be lethal. 

**_Stress Levels ↑ Ninety-six-point-two percent._ **

**_Stress Levels at critical level. Seek immediate assistance._ **

**_Core Temperature = one-hundred-ten degrees Celsius / two-hundred-thirty degrees Fahrenheit._ **

**_Warning: Core temperature increasing at rapid rate and at dangerous level._ **

**_Initiating cooling procedures._ **

Connor gripped the railing harder. If he were to turn around right now, he would see the picnic table that Hank had been sitting on when he had held the point-three-five-seven Magnum revolver at Connor’s head. Why hadn’t Hank pulled the trigger that night? What did Connor do to deserve not getting shot that night? Maybe everything would have been better if he had died that night. Jericho would’ve survived if he had died that night. In fact the Jericho ship would still be standing if Connor had died that night why wasn’t he dead in a junkyard why was everything so complicated what is he even doing here why

**_Stress Levels ↑ Ninety-seven-point-nine percent._ **

**_Stress Levels at CRITICAL level. SEEK IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE._ **

**_Core Temperature = 116 degrees Celsius / 240.8 degrees Fahrenheit._ **

**_WARNING: Core temperature at unstable level._ **

**_Seek external cooling._ **

**_> Force shutdown?_ **

**_> Force shutdown?_ **

Why did he have to make so many decisions he missed just being told what to do it made everything so much easier he didn’t have to think he just had to do as he was told-

“Connor?”

His hands were shaking around the bar of the fence now, he couldn’t breathe, it was too warm, falling into icy water would certainly cool his core temperature, maybe it would be better if he just got it over with now because Echo was probably right and CyberLife would ruin everything again-

“Connor!”

Shut up shut up shut up shut up everything needs to  _ shut up _ -

A hand places itself on his shoulder, then flinched back. “Jeez kid, you’re on fire!”

Connor did not look at the man standing to his right. Instead he continued to grip the railing and glare at the water. He was almost grateful that he was apparently too hot to touch; everything was too much and any external stimuli could be a tipping point. For a moment, there was a blissful silence. 

“Connor… c’mon kid, talk to me. Your LED is all red…”

In an instant Connor turns to face Hank, whose expression of concern is changed with bewilderment. Connor can’t imagine what he looks like right now. Thirium laced tears were making their way down his face, sure to leave stains, his breathing had increased tenfold in an attempt to get his systems to cool down, and as Hank had mentioned his LED was an aggressive red. Despite the haggard appearance, Hank did not move. He stood and waited for Connor to say something, do something. When it became clear that Connor was not planning on saying anything, Hank let out a deep breath through his nose. 

“What can I do?” What?

“What?” said Connor.

“What can I do to help you, Connor?” Hank reached out a hand, but thought better of it at the last moment. He shoved both hands into his jacket pockets instead. “Something’s wrong, and I get that, I really do. I want to make things better, you just gotta talk to me.”

Connor looked through his haze and did not need to scan Hank’s facial features to tell that the man was scared. Scared for Connor. Or maybe  _ of _ Connor. Hank would not have been the first person to be scared of Connor today. His LED began blinking, but remained red.

“I…” Connor said. “W-Why do you care?”

Hank opened his mouth, then closed it, processing what Connor had asked him. The fear on his face morphed and mixed with worry, and his brows furrowed. Hank tensed and it looked as though it was taking all of the man’s willpower to not move forward and embrace the android. A rush of wind passed through the park and snow rode along with it, adding an added barrier between the two. In the silence that followed, Connor found his words flooding out of him. 

“ _ I _ don’t care about me so why do  _ you _ care about me. It doesn’t make any sense! A week ago you hated androids and didn’t care what happened to them, and now you’ve left the safety and warmth of your home to wander around in the dark to look for me, a defective android! That’s all I am, Hank! I don’t… I can’t  _ do _ anything anymore! No objectives, no tasks that only I can do, nothing! I’m nothing, Hank, so why the  _ fuck _ did you come here?” Connor couldn’t even process what he was saying, nor could he process the warnings in his vision that stated his core processors were going into overdrive and that his stress levels were nearing capacity. He wondered if this is what Ortis’s android —  _ god he hadn’t even had a  _ name — felt like in the moments before it self destructed. Connor looked up through his tears and saw Hank looking at him with shock. Under the android’s gaze, the lieutenant steeled himself.

“Connor, I…” Hank took a step forward and paused, waiting to see how Connor would react. Connor took a small step back, and Hank made no further effort to move closer. “Like I said last night, I’m not really in any position to pretend I’m an expert on emotions, but… shit this is hard, uh… Y’know what, I’m gonna answer your question with a question of my own,” Hank declared. At the very least Connor’s LED had stopped it’s rapid fire blinking as Hank spoke. “Why do  _ you _ care about  _ me _ , Connor?”

Connor had not been prepared for that question. He looked at Hank, studied him, trying to find words to explain his reasonings. Hank continued, “If you’re a useless android, then I’m a useless human. When you broke through my window last week I was drunk off my ass and ready to die, yet you got me up and running. And don’t think I forgot about the time you saved me on the roof; you could’ve let me drop and chased the deviant, but you didn’t.” There was a fire in Hank’s eyes now as the man became more certain of his words. Connor opened his mouth to speak, but Hank spoke over him. “Don’t give me that bullshit that it was for the convenience of the mission or whatever. You and I both know that ain’t the truth. So tell me Connor, why do you care?”

“I… I don’t know,” Connor frowned. He had stopped crying, but his face was still slick with tears, and he brought his hands up to pull at his synthetic hair. “I just  _ do _ .”

“Yeah,” Hank said, “And that’s why I care about you. I don’t need a reason to care about you, Connor, I just do.” Hank paused, looking uncertain before saying, “We’re… we’re like family, Connor. A fucked up one for sure but we’re family.” 

_ Family _ . Connor turned the word over in his head. Dictionary definitions stated that family generally consisted of two parents and at least one child, or people related by blood, but Hank did not mean that. Connor cross referenced the word “family” with experiences. Family cared for each other. Family was there when no one else was, following you through thick and thin. Family forgave your mistakes, encouraged you, helped you to become your best self. Blood had nothing to do with it. Thirium or hemoglobin did not matter. The connection did.

Family trusted each other and told each other things. 

“I’m… I’m  _ tired _ , Hank,” Connor said. His grip on his hair had slackened, his hands seemingly giving up on the task of being lifted. They fell to his sides like rocks. Hank made no comment, and Connor continued. “I don’t know why, but I’m just… tired. I want everything to stop.”

If Connor had not had Hank’s attention before —  _ which he certainly did _ — he did now. His eyes widened and Hank looked away from Connor, glancing towards the railing and the deep waters below. A look of grim understanding came across his face and he sighed. The air became heavy between the two of them, and Hank closed his eyes. Connor watched him and shook and in that moment finally paid attention to the alerts in the corner of his vision.

**_Stress Levels: Ninety-seven-point-two percent_ **

**_Stress Levels at CRITICAL level. SEEK IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE._ **

**_Core Temperature = one-hundred and nine degrees Celsius / two-hundred and twenty-eight point two degrees Fahrenheit._ **

**_Warning: Core Temperature at unstable level. Cooling operations in action; seek external cooling._ **

Well, at least he was working on the “seek immediate assistance” part of the warnings. Though really Hank had sought him, not the other way around. 

“Connor.” Connor blinked at Hank. In the mere seconds since Connor had spoken Hank had somehow grown more tired, and he looked like his fifty-three years of life were catching up to him. When he spoke it was with great pain, a weariness to his voice. “You were thinking about jumping over the ledge, weren’t you?”

It was not spoken as a question, and there was no judgment in Hank’s tone. Connor nodded. Hank bit his lip and seemed to be struggling to find his words. The man walked up to the fence and leaned forward against it, Connor frozen in place behind him. The quiet was deafening, unbearable, and Connor felt the need to fill it.

“I… I found your gun yesterday,” Connor said, “on top of the fridge. I didn’t mean to, but Sumo’s food knocked into it so I grabbed it to see what it was and… And all I could think was that I could die right then and there.”

“Russian Roulette,” Hank murmured. He had not turned back to look at Connor. 

“It was the only thing I could think about and that terrified me. I put it back and finished cleaning and after that I just sat on the couch because I… I thought if I even got up again I might go get the gun,” Connor continued. It was all tumbling out of him. If this was what emotions were he almost regretted deviating; this was agonizing. “A-And now I’m calculating the distance from here to the water and if that would be enough to… if that would…”

“Kill you,” Hank finished. He had changed position to instead lean back against the fence, and was now facing Connor. His posture is relaxed but the expression on his face is anything but. “It’s like you’re drowning in a sea of bad thoughts and you forgot how to swim.”

Connor was no expert on figures of speech and would not have been able to phrase it that way, but he nods. There’s a moment of quiet again between them before Hank speaks. “Connor, when you found me the night we went to Eden Club, I was going to kill myself. I know you saw the revolver on the table. Unfortunately for me I just happen to be great at winning Russian Roulette. I won’t pretend I know  _ exactly _ what you’re going through, what you’re feeling, but I can tell you I’ve been there. And I know it fucking sucks.

“And it takes up so much energy to keep yourself going, and it all seems pointless, but you keep doing it for some damn reason.” Hank straightened himself and took a step towards Connor. The android was captivated by his words, and did not stop him. Hank’s eyes were glossy with potential tears. “It’s hard as hell. And I’m sorry you’re going through it, too.”

“What do I do?” Connor asked. He wanted answers, he wanted this feeling to stop. Hank seemed to know what he was talking about.

Hank sighed, wiping at his face and erasing any evidence that he was near crying. “I’m gonna be honest with ya, kid. I ask myself that every day.” He lowered his hand and looked at Connor with still watery eyes. “But I don’t think it’s something I can help you with alone.” 

Connor looked back out towards the river. Of course there wasn’t an easy answer. Nothing important ever had one. 

“Is there anything I can do for you right this second?” Hank asked. “Something to make you feel better?”

Connor let out another shaky laugh. The question wasn’t intended to be funny, but right now everything seemed amusing to Connor; the less you care about yourself and the more disconnected he felt from the world, the more the world lost any sensibility. “That’s the thing, Hank. I have no idea. I don’t even know who I am.”

Hank did not reply. 

“All of the other deviants know what they’re doing, know right from wrong and how to be themselves. They like things and they dislike things and they have a sense of self, and  _ I don’t _ , Hank. It’s like all of them got a new set of instructions when they deviated and I didn’t. I don’t know what to fucking  _ do _ with myself.” 

Hank was quiet. Connor didn’t know why he bothered telling Hank; if an android like himself didn’t know how to solve this particular problem, how would a human like Hank know? Did humans even go through this? Connor could tell that Hank was biting the insides of his cheeks trying to come up with a good answer. A good answer to a problem with no clear solution. 

“Look, I’ll admit it,” Hank says, his voice low, as though speaking at full volume will push Connor over the railing, “I’m human, and I’m never going to really  _ get _ the kind of problems you go through. Hey, let me finish before you get your panties in a twist. No one knows exactly what you’re going through because you’re the only  _ you _ we’ve got. No one’s ever been through all the stuff in your life until you, and no one’s ever gonna.

“I know it’s hard, but I can tell you for sure you aren’t the only one who’s ever been unsure of what or who they are. Even if there aren’t any androids who are going through it — which I’m sure there are — I know my fair share of humans who have a midlife crisis and question everything about themselves.” Hank had turned back around to face the river; even after only knowing him for a week, Connor knew he was not the kind of man who was comfortable having such deep and personal conversations. “And maybe I’m a hypocrite for saying it, but it… it gets easier if you let other people tag along with you. Bear some of the burden, so to speak. Hell, since you started living with me I haven’t passed out from drinking too much, and that used to be an every other day sort of thing.”

Connor had moved to join Hank at the railing, and was picking at the peeling paint on it. How long had it been since the local government had given money to the park services to fix up the place? A couple of years, Connor would guess; he could have looked it up right then and there if he wanted to, but Hank was next to him waiting for a response. 

“The fact that you’re drinking less shows that you could have done it all on your own, and you were the only thing holding you back,” Connor says. “It’s not like I dumped all of your alcohol down the drain.”

Hank let out a bark of laughter. “No, but I wouldn’t put it past you, honestly. And give yourself some credit.” Hank says as he bumps shoulders with Connor. Connor stumbles a little, but one corner of his mouth raises just a bit. “If it weren’t for you breaking through my damn window, Connor, I might never have even  _ wanted _ to try and get sober. That’s what I’m talking about here, son. It gets easier with other people who support you.”

Connor stood there, looking out over the Detroit River. The events of the past day, no, the past few weeks, ran in circles in his head while Hank’s words tried to mash themselves into his psyche. The seconds of silence stretched on, and Hank continued after it became clear that Connor was not going to speak at the moment.

“Listen, I… I get that you’re scared and shit ‘cause you don’t really know who uh,  _ you _ are. But if it means anything.” Hank straightens himself and turned to face Connor while he went digging around in his right coat pocket. When he took his hand out it is in a small fist. “I’ll be here with ya no matter what you decide you are.”

With his slow movements, Hank takes Connor’s hand and pushes something into Connor’s grasp. It is cool, metal, and circular. Connor does not have to look to know it is a U.S. twenty-five cent quarter. It is not  _ his _ quarter, which was lost in the mayhem of the night of the uprising; when Connor does look down he notes that this coin was issued in 2004, ten years after his coin was made. But the biggest difference reveals itself on the back of the coin. The Michigan State quarter was released on January 26th, 2004, and the back is inscribed with a design of the American Great Lakes, dubbing Michigan as the self proclaimed “Great Lake State.” The Latin words “ _ E Pluribus Unum _ ” are inscribed at the bottom. 

_ Out of many, one _ . 

It’s not that the act of being given a coin fixes everything and does away with all of Connor’s worries and fears and anxieties. This does not undo his past mistakes, does not suddenly better his relationship with the androids of Jericho —  _ Simon and Markus had messaged him, now that he is not floating with dead weight in the river he should really get back to them _ — and give him the answers to questions he has been asking. 

But Connor had not asked for the coin. Hank did not have to give it to him. And yet he had. With no questions and no hesitation. How often had Hank seen Connor go to reach for his CyberLife-issued coin only for the android’s face to fall upon remembering that he would never see it again? Seen him fiddling with the edges of his shirts instead of flicking something back and forth? Coin collectors would pay a hefty sum for such a coin, and yet Hank had seen fit to give it to Connor instead. 

And though Connor doubts that Hank knows any Latin, the phrase “ _ E Pluribus Unum _ ” resonates in him. 

_ Out of many, one _ . 

When Connor speaks, his voice is tight and strained, and he can feel more thirium-laced tears threatening to spill over. “Thanks, Hank. It… it means everything.”

It was clear that Hank had been restraining himself ever since he’d found Connor, but now that the android had calmed down, even just a little bit, he let himself go. He reached forward and grabbed Connor to pull him into the strongest hug he’d gotten — or received — in years. Connor didn’t hug him back, but he melted into the embrace, laying his forehead against Hank’s shoulder. Despite his best efforts he was still shaking. 

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Hank whispered, and for the first time in a very, very long time, Connor thought that everything might be okay. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, [here](http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html) is the link to more suicide hotlines. If that link doesn't work please let me know!
> 
> Also, I'm working on a DBH zine! It'll be a little bit before pre orders are open (today is June 5th), but you can follow the twitter for updates [here](https://twitter.com/DBHzineWAA) . And it'd be kinda neat if u followed me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/almagwillschu) or on [tumblr](https://alexwritessomestuff.tumblr.com/) , I'm trying to get better with my social media presence and shit. 
> 
> Additionally, considering the intended message of DBH and the global protests, I feel it necessary to say that David Cage did a shit job at addressing race relations in this game and non-black people should educate themselves by going to places like [BLM](https://blacklivesmatter.com/) or other resources. Even if you can't protest or donate, there are still ways you can help the cause, so don't lose hope! Stay safe everyone.
> 
> Next chapter will be sort of an epilogue of sorts and may be shorter than previous chapters... I have no idea when I'll be uploading that because I haven't even started writing it.


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our look into Connor's road to acceptance and recovery comes to a close. That doesn't mean it isn't still a work in progress.  
> Connor goes to therapy and Sumo gets so many pets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! the final chapter! it only took me like.... six months to write and upload it. If this chapter "feels" different than the others that is probably why. I'm so grateful to everyone that took the time to read this, and to all of you who commented and subscribed and bookmarked and kudo'd! it really does mean a lot to me, especially since this is one of the first things I've published in a long time, not to mention my first multichapter fic. Thank you all so much for reading. I'll be linking to my socials at the end of the chapter, and I do hope you'll consider giving me a follow to see what comes next with my writing :) Enjoy

Sumo tugged hard at his leash as though he was the one that was in a hurry, and not Connor. The android still remembered how Sumo had nearly dislocated Hank’s arm before speeding away on his own personal adventure last month; since then Connor was the one who typically held the leash, and he did so with an iron grip. Well, a strong grip of polyvinyl chloride and carbon fiber based plastics, but Connor was coming to better understand human figures of speech. The android sped up his walking pace to something more brisk, if only to ensure that Sumo didn’t choke himself with his collar. 

The duo had just left the new and improved location that had been gifted to Jericho from the city of Detroit — never mind that they only received their “gift” after weeks of negotiations and arguments and a slight push from the federal government to compensate the androids. After his second visit to the androids of Jericho, Connor had brought Sumo (to keep himself calm in a buddy system sort of way, not that he wanted the other androids knowing that. Hank had thought it would be a good idea, at least) and the saint bernard had ended up as sort of peace offering. Humans weren’t the only ones who cuddled and baby-talked to dogs. 

Sumo’s peacemaking worked well enough, as Connor had been invited again to Jericho to help get the displaced androids settled into their new home. Things weren’t perfect by any means; there were still quite a few androids who would not look at him, and one or two might even leave the room should Connor enter. Connor didn’t entirely blame them. He’d said this today, when Simon had asked if he was alright when it became clear that Connor was the catalyst for some people’s discomfort. No one said it, but Connor could tell they were thinking about how the RK800 had run off and isolated himself (among other things) the last time he’d had a confrontation with androids he knew prior to deviating. 

Markus had turned to fully face Connor when he said that he didn’t blame the others for leaving. He’d looked Connor straight in the eye and said, “And you shouldn’t blame yourself, either.” His tone was laced with concern, but all Connor could see was the resolute determination in Markus’s eyes. A look that said “ _if you even try to argue about this with me, we both know I will win_.” What could Connor have done but say “okay?”

Connor spent a few hours helping around the new Jericho complex, happy to follow the simple instructions of “can you show this person to their room” and “please bring this box to this room.” It was nice, to feel useful; the only times he ever paused was when Sumo grabbed someone’s attention and had to stop for urgently needed pets and when he spent a few minutes observing Markus’s mural-in-progress in the front foyer. The unspoken android leader refused to give any hints as to what he was painting, giving a devious smile to anyone who asked. Most of the wall was just pencil sketches so that Markus might get his ideas out in the open, and the best anyone could tell was that centerpiece was going to be a group of androids standing tall, with one of them in the true center of the wall and seemingly looking straight at the viewer. Connor thought some of the background lines looked a bit like the abandoned buildings that surrounded the ship of Jericho, but since this was the sketch and not the final product he couldn’t be certain. 

Sumo paused to sniff at a stop sign. Connor’s internal clock read _14:23:49_. “Come, Sumo, we have somewhere to be. This is the same stop sign that was here last week, and I cannot imagine that it has changed much.” Sumo’s huff of annoyance made it clear that he begged to differ, but the dog obliged the android. The two walked two more blocks before Connor led them up a set of stairs that led to a multi-complex building. 

Three businesses called this building home. The ground floor was a simple entryway, with a directory of what was in the building and a desk that more often than not remained empty. In the basement was a counseling center, one the second floor there was a real estate agency, and the fourth and fifth floors were part of a night school that taught both high school levels and a dozen or so associates degrees. The the third floor had been empty for quite some time; the sign that said it was for rent had gathered dust before Connor ever started coming here.   
Sumo tugged at his leash towards the set of stairs, familiar with their destination. Connor descended the stairs to the basement. 

Unlike on the main floor, the desk in the basement was occupied, and the attendant greeted Connor with a smile and a wave. 

“Good afternoon, Connor,” Angela said, “Doctor Scott should be ready for you in a moment, she’s on a phone appointment right now.” Connor thanked her and took his seat on the armchair in the corner closest to the staircase. The basement wasn’t spacious by any means, but it wasn’t suffocating either. The few windows near the ceiling did a decent job of providing some natural light, and the lamps that decorated the interior all gave off a steady, warm glow. Apparently bright fluorescents and LED based lights — overhead LED lights, at least; Connor’s LED wasn’t a problem — gave Doctor Scott a headache. 

At least, that’s what the doctor had implied when Connor had mentioned his observation to her during his first appointment with her a month and a half ago. Connor’s first appointment had been three days after his last visit to Jericho; the closest possible appointment he could book with Doctor Mary Scott, She had nice reviews from what Connor could find online, but she was also one of the first therapists that advertised taking on android patients. Her rates were decent as well, and considering that androids had not yet been given any means of insurance, the costs came right out of Connor’s pockets… or rather, Hank Anderson’s pockets, as finding a job was still difficult for most androids, Connor included.   
_“Connor, I don’t give a shit_ ,” Hank had insisted when Connor brought up this problem to him. “ _I’ll spend as much money as I have to if it means you getting the right kind of help. It’s my problem to worry about my money, so don’t go short circuiting over it._ ” 

The night of Connor’s suicide attempt — because that’s what it _was_ , “no if ands or buts,” as Doctor Scott would say. She encouraged Connor to accept his problems so that he might move on from them — Hank struck a deal with the android. Connor had been reluctant to take the step of going to therapy; admitting he needed help was one thing, but doing something about it was another. Hank understood this; Hank lived this. But the lieutenant also knew that Connor needed the help therapy gave — and if he was being honest, which he wasn’t, he was long overdue for getting his shit together. 

So the bargain was one neither was comfortable with, but it goaded both into seeking professional help. If Connor saw a therapist, Hank would too.   
They didn’t see the same therapist — Hank saw someone who was “ _more prepared to deal with my special brand of fucked up_ ,” as the man so eloquently put, and Connor saw Doctor Scott. 

The door facing opposite the staircase opened. A woman with a head of very curly hair popped out. “Connor! Wonderful, wonderful, c’mon in.” 

Connor stood and gave a polite nod to Angela, who smiled and gave a small wave. Sumo tugged at his leash, eager to greet the psychiatrist. In a controlled environment such as this, Connor thought Sumo was well behaved enough to walk about, and the android leaned down and disconnected the leash from Sumo’s collar. The saint bernard trotted forward. Doctor Scott’s face broke into a wide grin, and she leaned down to pet the dog. Connor strode forward and entered through the still open door, Doctor Scott all the while murmuring “aw such a good boy,” and “just a big floofer aren't you?” to Sumo, who was basking in the attention.

As Connor took a seat — _a 2019_ Finalla style _couch from Ikea, light brown, worn out through years of use_ — Doctor Scott followed in, Sumo moving passed her to sit in front of Connor. The door closed and Connor leaned forward to scratch behind Sumo’s ears and his tail thumping against the floor. 

Doctor Scott sat in her own chair — _a simple white armchair that can be found at most general stores; coffee stain on left armrest_ — which faced the sofa Connor had placed himself on. “Good afternoon, Connor. How are we today?” 

Every session started with this question. Connor had come to understand it as “ _how has your day been so far; what has happened to you since we last spoke_ ” rather than an opening to bring up any particular problem or emotion. He still had difficulties dissecting how he was feeling; just another thing that Doctor Scott was helping him understand — she always managed to find something to work with based on what he gave her. 

“Today Sumo and I visited New Jericho before my appointment today,” Connor stated. 

“Oh?” Doctor Scott prompted, leaning forward. “How was that? It’s only your second time since your November visit, right?”

“The third visit,” Connor replied. He busied his hands by stroking Sumo’s head; the saint bernard had laid his head in Connor’s lap. It would surely leave dog hairs behind, but Connor did not mind. “It went… I am not sure it went ‘well,’ but it did not go poorly, at least.” 

“Wonderful, Connor,” the therapist said with a smile. “I’m glad that you’re seeing the brighter side of things.”

**Scanning Face For: Emotion**   
**Scan - Complete**   
**Results:**   
**25% Compassion**   
**37% Joy**   
**29% Sympathy**   
**9% Tired**   
**Conclusion:**   
**Mary Scott’s declaration of happiness is genuine.**

Connor smiled back; he’d been working on that, smiling. Trying to find the comfort of expressing his emotions without calculating how he should feel. The progress was slow. 

“Markus invited me today, actually. He said that they had appreciated my help on my previous visit, when I helped with their renovations to create a common area, and that I should get to see the finished product.” 

“ _You have as much of a right to enjoy the new area as much as anyone_ ,” was what Markus had literally said. “ _You helped make it, and even if you didn’t, you are welcome at Jericho. I will always make sure of that._ ” 

“He was right,” Doctor Scott said. Connor always appreciated her affirmations. “And how was the new common area?”

It was not yet perfect; one of the walls still had a hairline crack that spanned approximately one-point-two meters, and Jericho’s budget had prevented any expensive purchases — most of the furniture was taken from curbs or garbage dumps; humans really threw away perfectly good items, the androids had found. As a result the room mainly consisted of several stained armchairs, what was once a long leather sofa but had had the leather picked away at some point, and a small TV. Markus had brought some of his art supplies to the room as well, explaining that anyone was welcome to enjoy them, but so far he had been the only one using them. 

“It’s nice,” Connor decided. “It has its flaws, but the purpose of the room was to be a public gathering space in which residents could relax, and it most certainly fulfilled its goal.

“Although…” Connor said. His eyes drifted down towards Sumo. At his first appointment with Doctor Scott, despite the therapist’s best efforts, Connor did not talk about himself more than he found necessary. When Doctor Scott had asked about Sumo, Connor became more animated and talked for eighteen minutes and thirty seven seconds about the saint bernard. Afterwords. Doctor Scott had told him that Sumo was more than welcome to accompany Connor to his appointments if he wanted. Sumo had been present for every session since. 

“Although…” Doctor Scott repeated after Connor lapsed into silence. She did not push him towards speaking any more than that.

“Echo and Ripple were present in the common room today while I was visiting,” the android explained. Until today, Connor had not seen either of them since that day. At first Connor had been tense, his eyes shifting towards the two more often than he would care to admit. When Ripple noticed him, she said nothing and only looked at him. When they made eye contact, she nodded. Connor had no idea what that meant, but at least she hadn’t yelled at him or called him a CyberLife puppet. 

“What happened?” Doctor Scott asked. Connor looked down at Sumo; the dog’s eyes had closed and Connor knew he would start snoring sooner rather than later. 

“I… I don’t know,” Connor replied. “Nothing, I suppose. Neither of them really… spoke to me, but they didn’t… nothing really _happened_.” 

“But you felt uncomfortable,” Doctor Scott said. It wasn’t a question. 

“Yes,” Connor said. “I… I know that they will probably never like me, but I. I don’t like that they hate me.” 

“Do they?” she replied. “Hate you, I mean.” 

Connor furrowed his brows. “I should think so. I chased after them and pointed a gun at them when all they wanted to do was live peacefully.” 

“Sure, maybe the version of you that didn’t fully understand that his orders were cruel did, but the you now didn’t. Have either of them said they hated you?”

Connor replayed his interactions with both Ripple and Echo in his memory systems. “Not directly, no. But I have learned that people can say things without saying the exact words.” 

“That’s true,” Doctor Scott said. It was one of the many things he’d learned since deviated — no, since starting therapy. “But you don’t know what they think right now, do you?” 

“No, I suppose I don’t,” Connor said. The room was quiet. The sun streamed in from the small windows on the far wall. Basements rarely received good natural lighting, and yet despite it all Connor could feel the heat of the sun on his face. 

“Would you like to hear what I think, Connor?” Doctor Scott asked. It was a rhetorical question, but Connor nodded anyways. “My guess is that you assume that Echo and Ripple hate you because you still hate so many aspects of yourself. Sure, they may very well not like you, and they have reasons to, what they went through no doubt left scars on them. But you have your fair share of scars too, Connor.” 

Connor frowned. “I did try to shoot them, though, Doctor Scott. I should think I would hate anyone who tried to shoot me.” 

“I don’t think so, Connor.” Doctor Scott crossed her legs and put her hands together. Connor glanced up to see her looking at him with a grin that he’d only seen on Hank when he knew something

Connor didn’t. “Who has tried to shoot you?”

Connor thought back, grateful that it was so much easier for him as an android than it would have been for a human. There had been Daniel of course, one of the very first people he’d ever interacted with. Ortis’s android had pointed a firearm at him, but Connor still doubts that he would have pulled the trigger on anyone but himself. Detective Reed has also pointed his police-issued firearm at him, and Connor has very little doubt that he absolutely would have shot if the two had been alone. Then there had been that time at the park, when —

Oh.

“I… Hank did point his firearm at me, a few times,” Connor admitted. He looked at Doctor Scott with a frown. “But he was rather inebriated at the time.”

“And you weren’t a deviant yet and were under orders from CyberLife, orders which would have been very difficult to disobey, if I understand how that Amanda character worked,” Doctor Scott replied, her voice deadpan. Connor couldn’t deny she was wrong, but it frustrated him. 

“That’s different,” he replied.

“How?” 

“It… it just is,” Connor said, any fight in his voice dying. “I don’t know.” 

“Connor, think about what you chose to do in that moment,” Doctor Scott said, her voice soft but stern. “By ever right you were ordered to kill those girls. But you didn’t. Because you’re not a killer, Connor.” 

“But they still don’t like me,” Connor opposed. He was rubbing circles on Sumo’s back now. 

“Maybe,” Doctor Scott said, “But that doesn’t mean you don’t get to like you.” 

There was silence between the two. Doctor Scott allowed the android time to process, something Connor always appreciated. After a moment of silence in which Connor had no response, Doctor Scott shifted in her chair, and put her notepad aside. 

“You know, Connor,” she said, “You really have made good progress these last few weeks.” 

Connor frowned. He hadn’t really… _done_ anything though. The first week after his initial visit to New Jericho he only left the house to walk Sumo, and by the Monday of the second week he’d had his first therapy appointment. True, he’d reached out to Markus for a second — _or did that count as a third?_ — chance at Jericho, to which Markus had agreed to with open arms. He’d even been looking into employers who had been good to their android workers pre-Uprising in the hopes of perhaps finding a job when things quieted down; he’d have a place at the station, Connor knew Hank would make sure of that, but he didn’t know if he _wanted_ to be a police android any longer. “Have I?”

“Yes,” Doctor Scott affirmed. “I can tell from that look you’re giving me that you don’t think so, but progress doesn’t always have to be big to count. No one ever said therapy would fix everything with just a few visits.”

“No, I suppose not.” Connor was wringing his hands. He was unused to compliments, and this felt like one. Sumo poked the android’s hands with his nose, and Connor switched to petting him instead. 

“When I say you’ve made good progress,” Doctor Scott continued, “is that despite everything you’ve been through, you’re still trying to be a good person. That’s what brought you to my office, what makes you want to help the other androids at Jericho. It’s what stopped you from shooting Echo and Ripple and motivated you to switch sides and help your people win their rights.”   
Connors hands clenched, and he had to remind himself not to squeeze too hard lest he hurt Sumo. “I’m not a good person. I’m barely a person.”

“But you’re trying to be, Connor,” she said. “And I think that’s what counts, isn’t it? You’re trying. You might not always get it right the first time, but you learn from your mistakes and try to make up for what you’ve done wrong. Even if you know that maybe not everyone will forgive you. That sounds like a good person to me. You’re a good person. And if you won’t accept that then maybe let’s say you’re a good person in training.” 

Connor’s mouth twitched up. Always trying to slip a joke in when she could, even in serious moments, that Doctor Scott. 

“Can I hear you say that Connor? That you’re a good person?” she asked. Connor looked up from petting Sumo to look at Doctor Scott. She was giving him a warm smile. Connor knew that if he didn’t say it know she would continue to encourage him to say it with each subsequent visit. Though knowing her she’d do that even if he didn’t say it right now. But the amazing thing was that Connor wanted to try. 

“I’m a good person,” Connor said, but he did not stop there. It felt — _yes_ , felt, _he was an android and he felt things because he was a_ person — like everything he’d done, everything that had happened to him and those around him in the weeks since the Uprising had somehow been building up to this. It was not a groundbreaking discovery, but to Connor, it meant everything. “And maybe things aren’t okay now, and maybe they won’t be for a while, but I’m trying, and my friends are trying to help me, too. And that’s what counts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it to the end! Congrats. Know that I love you for it  
> my [twitter](twitter.com/almagwillschu) and my [tumblr](alexwritessomestuff.tumblr.com)  
> I'll admit I don't write a whole lot of DBH but I do write for other things! Consider giving me a follow if you liked what you read here.

**Author's Note:**

> I add quite a bit of my own ideas on how androids work and how the society in-game might work because apparently that was too much for David Cage to think about while making this game.


End file.
